Star Crossed
by Opifex the Singer
Summary: The Dark Griffin trilogy has been accepted for publication! To celebrate, I have written this prequel to From White to Black. This is the story of Inge Taranisaii and Skandar Traeganni, Galbatorix's ill-fated parents.
1. Writing in the Stars

Chapter One

**Chapter One**

**Writing in the Stars**

They sparkled, scattered over the field of the night sky like grains of salt. From here, it looked as if there were no end to them – as if they went on forever, to the very ends of the earth.

Skandar shifted, adjusting his grip on the branch to balance himself better, and watched them with fascination. From here he had an uninterrupted view, and he kept his eyes skyward, picking out the shapes which the stars drew in the heavens. There was the Wolf, running through the sky with the moon in his jaws. The Bear, massive starry claws raised to defend his children. The Deer, watchful for danger. And the Crow, wings spread wide to travel between the heavens and the earth with his sacred messages.

Skandar's grin returned, as he captured the image in his mind and kept it there, ready for when he needed it. Tomorrow he could try and capture it upon a piece of wood. He knew his magic would be strong enough by now; it had to be.

'Skandar?' the voice drifted up to him.

Skandar looked down. 'Yes, Father?'

Skraed Traeganni's face, looking back up at him, wore a smile. 'Do you do nothing but stay up that tree all night, boy?'

Skandar slid down, his long, powerful toes gripping the bark easily. 'I sleep as well,' he said.

Skraed laughed. 'Well, it is time for you to do that again,' he said. 'The stars will still be there tomorrow night.'

Skandar followed him back toward the settlement, barefoot and nimble. 'Have the hunters returned?'

'Not yet, but they will be back by morning,' said Skraed. 'There is no need to worry.'

'Well I _am_ worried,' said Skandar. 'If they do not come back before light, they could be seen.'

'Seen by who?' said Skraed.

Skandar scowled. 'You know who, Father. The Shur'tugal are about.' His scowl deepened. 'They'll take more of our hunters, Father, I know it.'

'Now then,' said Skraed. 'We do not know that the Shur'tugal had anything to do with our missing men.'

'But they did,' said Skandar.

'Silence, Skandar. Do not accuse without proof.'

'I don't need _proof,'_ Skandar snapped. 'Who else but a dragon-rider could have killed one of our warriors?

Skraed muttered something to himself, but he said nothing and walked on through the grove of birches that marked the edge of the settlement with Skandar following at his heels.

Beyond the trees were the little stone huts that everyone in the settlement lived in – even King Graethen himself. There were plenty of people about, some of them at work on some chore or other, but most of them lounging around the black compound fire, relaxing after a long day.

Skandar loped past them after his father, noting the fact that nearly all the adults in sight had weapons to hand. They had noticed the signs, even if his father preferred to ignore them.

Skraed pulled aside the deer-skin that covered the entrance to his home, and went inside.

Beyond it, his wife Arthryn looked up from her sewing. 'Ah, there you are.'

Skraed hustled the complaining Skandar through the door. 'I found this one hiding up a tree like a squirrel. Perhaps we should not have named him for the hawk after all.'

Arthryn looked at her son. 'Why were you there, Skandar?'

Skandar rubbed his shoulder. 'I was looking at the stars, Mother. I just like to do that, see?'

'Yes, I see. Well, get ye to bed, Skandar.'

Skandar moved toward his sleeping pallet, but reluctantly. 'Why? The moon is barely in the sky.'

Arthryn laid her needle down. 'The King has called us together to discuss important things. You and the other children must stay away.'

Skandar stared at her. 'What things? Why must we stay away?'

'Not things you should worry about,' his mother told him, with a finality in her voice that told him he wasn't going to get anything more from her.

Skandar thought quickly. 'Well go then,' he said. 'I can guard the hut.'

Skraed chuckled. 'I have no doubt. Sleep now, son. We will be back soon enough.'

He left the hut, and Arthryn followed in silence.

Alone, Skandar sat in front of the fire and frowned. At the age of eleven, he was already much stronger than a human child, though he looked younger. He had thick pitch-black hair, worn in the traditional loose style of childhood, and his black eyes had the quiet watchful expression common to dark elves.

He reached a decision quickly, and stood up. Moving silently, he crept toward the entrance and peeked out.

The adults were gathered around the fire – even old crippled Arvel was there. They were all looking toward King Graethen, who was saying something just out of earshot.

Skandar looked quickly at the placement of objects around the assembly, assessing the situation. Yes. He could do it.

He took a deep breath, and slid out of the hut and into the shadows, moving with the utter silence that was his people's gift. If any of the adults had been expecting him to be there they would have seen him instantly – they were far more practised at it than he was. But they were caught up in the meeting, and their eyes and their attention were elsewhere.

Skandar slipped from shadow to shadow until he was at the very edge of the group, less than an arm's length away from Celython the sheep-herder.

He crouched down in the shadow cast by an abandoned hand-cart, and listened.

'…cannot give in,' the King was saying. 'Sooner or later the light elves shall come, and when they do, we must be prepared.'

Prydwen, the settlement's greatest warrior, spat. 'Pah. They have not the courage.'

'But they have the _strength!'_ Skraed snapped back. 'Do you have rocks between your ears, Prydwen? With the riders behind them, the light elves may do whatever they choose. They know where we are now, and they shall destroy us if we give them the chance.'

'Well then what do you suggest, Skraed Traeganni?' said the King.

Skraed stood up. 'We must leave here, Father, and soon.'

'And where shall we go?' another voice demanded. 'Where shall we flee _this_ time, Prince Skraed?'

'I do not know, but it is our only chance,' said Skraed. 'If the riders come here… _when_ they come…'

'Skraed, we have nowhere else to go,' the King told him wearily. 'If we left the shelter of this place, we would be fleeing into unknown lands – lands full of elves and humans allied with the riders. They would give us up at once. And how could we survive if by the grace of the gods the riders did not find us?'

Skraed hesitated. 'What alternative do you suggest, Father? What else can we do?'

'The only thing we can do,' said the King. 'We must negotiate with the riders. If we can make a treaty with them…'

Skraed scratched his pointed beard, apparently trying to calm himself down. Around him, the others were less restrained.

'Madness!' one shouted.

'We cannot do that!' said Prydwen.

The King turned his calm gaze on him. 'Why do you say that, Prydwen? What do you suggest we do?'

'We must fight, Sire!' Prydwen exclaimed. 'It is the only-,'

'_You fool!'_ Skraed burst forth. 'Fight the _riders?_ Have you lost your mind?'

But many of the dark elves had muttered their assent.

King Graethen turned on them. 'You think we should fight them, then? And what would we gain?'

'Our pride!' said Prydwen. He raised a fist. 'Too long have the dark elves hidden away like rats beneath a stone. We cannot let those Southern scum oppress us! Did we not spawn the first rider? Were we not the first to discover dark magic? And yet we allow ourselves to be crushed this way – reduced to fleeing like deer-,' he glared at Skraed, 'Or trying to make petty deals as if we were human.' And he glared at the King as well.

Graethen met the glare calmly. 'Once again, Prydwen, you allow yourself to be ruled by your passion rather than your senses. Yes, to run or negotiate would be to admit weakness, but the alternative is one too terrible to speak of. _Extinction.'_ He turned to look at all the listeners. 'Aye, extinction. You know that. All of you know. We know what the riders have done to the silver elves, and to the plains dragons, and the red dwarves. Unless we use our heads, we shall suffer the same fate.'

'Well then we must fight!' said Prydwen. 'Fight for vengeance, fight to-,'

Skraed snapped. He turned on his heel and hit Prydwen in the face, hard enough to knock him over.

The assembled dark elves started, but none of them made a sound. Instead, they turned their gaze toward Skraed, who calmly moved to stand next to the King.

'My father is right,' he said. 'We cannot flee; we have nowhere to go. And we _cannot fight._ To fight them would be a brave gesture, and an utterly futile one. What would we gain from it but our own destruction? No. I find it as distasteful as you do, but we must try and bargain with them. We are dark elves!' he added, to smother the dismayed mutterings. 'We are cunning and patient, famed for our ability to deceive. We shall deceive the light elves _and_ the riders, we shall pretend to submit and take our opportunity for revenge when it arises.'

'My son is correct,' said the King, smiling very slightly at him. 'We _shall_ fight, but not until the time is right. Consider this. When the light elves come here, we shall surrender… shall _appear_ to surrender. We shall beg for mercy, offer up whatever oaths of loyalty they demand, make ourselves their vassals. When we are safe, we shall wait until the time comes.' His eyes glittered slyly. 'In time – who knows? Perhaps one of our number shall even join the riders. Then we would have a power on our side that could be the saving of us.'

Silence followed, and the dark elves glanced at each other. Some of them began to smile.

Prydwen stood up. There was a swelling dark bruise on his chin, but he came forward and bowed low to the King. 'I thought you were a coward, Sire, but I was wrong,' he said quietly. 'You have spoken sense. We shall fight when we have the advantage, when our position is stronger. The light elves are more than arrogant enough to believe whatever pleasant lies we tell them.'

The others nodded their agreement, and some stood and bowed too.

'Then it is decided,' said the King. 'We shall wait, and watch… and prepare.'

The meeting was over, and the adults began to disperse without another word. Skandar, still hiding behind the cart, found himself shivering in fear. The riders were coming. His father had been lying. They were coming, and when they did…

Skandar already knew what the riders did to their enemies. But, then, all of Alagaësia did.


	2. The Shur'tugal

Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

**The Shur'tugal**

Skandar managed to creep back into his family's hut, and was feigning sleep by the time his parents returned. He had been going to "wake up" and talk to them when they did, but something made him keep his eyes closed. Maybe it was fear.

A shadow moved across him, and his father's voice called his name softly. Skandar didn't move.

'Asleep, moon bless him,' Skraed muttered.

'What shall we tell him?' said Arthryn.

'He has the right to know what has happened… and what is going to happen,' said Skraed. 'He is not a fool.'

'He is brave,' said Arthryn. 'But as proud as you are. I fear that if he is with us when the Shur'tugal come, he may say or do something he should not.'

'I will talk with him,' said Skraed. 'He will understand.'

Skandar squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth, forcing himself not to do anything – not to get up and confront them, tell them what he thought, try and express even a tiny piece of the sheer terror and rage inside him.

'Even so, I wish we could do something to protect him,' said Arthryn. 'Hide him somewhere until they have gone… if things do not go as planned…'

'He must be with us, Arthryn,' said Skraed. 'You know that. If he is with us, we can protect him. And what will the others say if we hide our own son but force them to place their own where the riders can see them? We are the royal family; we must lead by example.'

'I understand,' said Arthryn. 'Of course I do. If only…' she sighed. 'I must sleep. If a dream would only come… if the gods would show me the way…' she made an odd sound that was almost a sob.

Skraed sighed. 'Please, beloved, do not torture yourself. None of this is your fault. Your dreams come when they come, not when you call them – all of us know that.'

'But if I could only…' Arthryn trailed away. 'Yes. I know. And we _shall_ survive this.'

'Of course we shall,' said Skraed. 'We are the dark elves! We have always survived. _We_ are the rightful rulers of Alagaësia, and one day we shall triumph over the godless Southern elves. Perhaps I am not a seer, but I know that much.'

Skandar risked a peek, and saw his parents embracing. He closed his eyes again and buried his face in his pillow. _Yes. You're right, Father. We're stronger than the light elves, even without dragons. They'll never destroy us. Not in a thousand years._

The next few days were tense, and unhappy for Skandar. In the end he never did tell anyone he had listened to the meeting, but others noticed how quiet he had become.

He kept to himself, too troubled to talk, and at night he still climbed his favourite tree to look at the stars and think.

But he was also making plans.

Keeping away from the others and saying nothing to anyone, he began exploring the land around the settlement – over his father's orders for him to stay close to home. He had been into the forest many times, but always with someone else. Once doing it alone might have scared him, but not now.

He crept over the leaf-litter, keeping to the shadows the way his father had taught him, every sense alert for danger. Nothing stirred. He saw a few animals – squirrels, rabbits and once a deer – but no sign of another elf. This was dark elvish land, and the idea that anyone – let alone an enemy – could ever enter it seemed ridiculous to him, at least then.

In this way, over the course of a few days he learned the lie of the land and began marking out trails – fast and hidden routes to hiding places he had discovered and in some cases built. He began sneaking food and water to these places and stashing them there, along with weapons – daggers and small axes pilfered from the settlement.

And all the while he made plans, in the privacy of his head. When the riders came, he would stay with his parents as long as he could – would do what the King had said. It was unthinkable to disobey the King.

Skandar did not believe that the riders would be friendly, or that they would listen. He hadn't believed it for an instant, and he didn't believe it now. They were Southern elves – light elves, godless heathens who believed all the world was theirs to do with as they liked. They would never tolerate their dark cousins – they never had. Skandar had known that from the cradle.

But he trusted the King, and he trusted his parents. When the riders came, if the King's plan did not work, they would fight. When that happened, Skandar's plan would come into effect.

_I'll bring them here, _he told himself. _Mother and Father, and everyone else. I'll tell them how to follow the trails, and then they can hide until the riders are gone. _

He spent the last day re-marking the trails, to make sure they were just visible enough. Just as much as they had to be. The riders would be too stupid to know what they meant. He worked over his favourite one first – the one that led to the hiding place reserved for himself and his parents – and revisited it at the end before returning to the settlement as night fell.

As he was walking in amongst the huts, a girl about his age ran to meet him.

'Skandar!'

Skandar smiled wearily at her. 'Hello, Saethryn.'

'I was worried about you, cousin,' said Saethryn. 'Your mother was looking for you, she says we must all go to our homes and stay there.'

Skandar tensed. 'Why?'

She frowned. 'I do not think we were supposed to know, but I heard someone tell the King that there are dragons not far away from the village.'

Skandar's heart beat fast. 'Shur'tugal!'

His cousin's face was solemn. 'Yes. Come, Skandar, we must…'

'Saeddryn.' Skandar grabbed her hand. 'Come with me; I must show you something quickly.'

She looked doubtful. 'But we must go back-,'

'Soon,' said Skandar. 'But this is important. Come, Saethryn – it is not far.'

'If it is not far, then,' she said at last.

Skandar led her away from the village and a short way into the forest, to where the first of his markers was cut into a tree – well below eye-level, where it would be far less likely to be seen. 'I made this.'

Saethryn ran her fingers over it. '"Sanctuary"?'

'Yes,' said Skandar. 'There are more on the trees down the slope. I put them there, as a trail. Saethryn, listen carefully…'

'I am listening.'

'If the Shur'tugal… if something bad happens,' Skandar took a deep breath. 'If we are attacked, then you must run here and follow the markers. They lead to a hiding place. There are other trails. Take others with you. Do you understand?'

Saethryn's eyes had gone wide. 'Skandar, the riders will not-,'

'You must do it, Saethryn!' said Skandar. 'You must not let the riders find you!'

'But if we leave the village, we will be vulnerable,' said Saethryn. 'We will have nowhere to go… and the King can protect us…'

'But if he cannot and the riders attack, then you must run,' said Skandar. 'I will too. Do you promise, Saethryn?'

She hesitated, and then nodded. 'I promise, Skandar.'

Skandar breathed a sigh of relief. 'Good. Then we'll go back home now.'

They returned to the settlement, hand in hand. Skandar could feel Saethryn's hand trembling slightly, but he realised he was as frightened as she was.

_Moon protect us, _he prayed.

When he returned to his hut, he found his mother waiting for him.

'Skandar! Where have you been?'

'Playing with Saethryn,' he mumbled.

'Well go inside now,' said Arthryn. 'Your father wants to speak to you.'

Skandar obeyed. His father was sitting cross-legged by the fire, staring into its black, smokeless flames. His hair hung over his face, and his gracefully pointed ears poked through it, the rings and studs that adorned them gleaming silver.

Skandar, pausing in the doorway, was suddenly struck by how strong his father looked. He was two hundred years old and had fought plenty of battles already – he had been alive before humans had been granted the right to become riders like the light elves, and had more stories to tell than Skandar could have hoped to hear in the entire course of his own short life.

Realising that, Skandar felt much safer. His father was wise and strong, and he could fight. He would find a way for them to survive.

Skandar went to sit next to him. 'Father?'

Skraed turned his head to look at him, and his face crinkled in a smile. 'There you are. Are you hungry?'

'Yes.'

Skraed passed him a slice of dry venison on a piece of bread. 'We did not have time to make a proper meal. There has been so much to do…'

Skandar chewed gratefully. 'Saethryn told me there are dragons nearby,' he said through a mouthful of the smokey-tasting meat. 'Is that true, Father?'

Skraed hesitated. 'Yes. We are certain of it this time.'

'Well what are we going to do?'

'Finish your food, and I will tell you,' said Skraed.

Skandar gulped down the last of it. 'Now tell me,' he demanded.

'Skandar,' said Skraed. 'Listen carefully. I am going to teach you something, and you must learn it tonight.'

'What is it?' said Skandar.

'Spells.'

Skandar sat up, immediately interested. 'Which spells?'

'The first,' said Skraed, 'The first spell is complex, but you should be able to learn it.' He sighed and settled down. 'Now. The Southern elves use a different magic than us – they rely upon the ancient language to manipulate magic, but in such a way that it had different rules and limitations than our own. Their rules are rigid… unbreakeable. The ancient language cannot be used to tell a lie.'

Skandar gaped. 'They can _never _lie?'

'Never.'

Skandar was appalled. How could anyone live with nothing but pure, stark truth? A langauge that could never lie, never be used to manipulate… it went against everything he had ever known. 'How do they live that way?'

'Far, far more dishonestly than we do,' said Skraed. 'Strange though that may seem. The ancient language can control magic, and it can also control people. An oath said in the ancient language can _never_ be broken. To do so would bring instant death.' He sighed deeply. 'And so it is the delight of the light elves to force others to take such oaths, knowing that they would die if they disobeyed them in any way.'

Skandar felt his stomach twist. 'But if they do that to _us…'_

Skraed grinned wolfishly. 'Ah, but that is the other thing. The ancient language works only on those who have bound themselves to it – _and we have not. _We are masters of dark magic, shadow magic… a magic far subtler than those of our cursed cousins. We can break such oaths without harm, we can lie in the ancient language. That is our greatest power against the light elves and the riders they control. And it is also our greatest secret, which is why you have not been told this before.'

'How can we use it?' said Skandar. 'Can we lie to them?'

'They will suspect trickery,' said Skraed. 'Our race is famed for our sly wit and silver tongues. But listen. We do not only have the power to break ancient language oaths, but we can also free others who do not have that power. That is the spell I am going to teach you.'

Skandar couldn't imagine ever having to use it, but he nodded anyway.

'Very well then,' said Skraed. 'Listen and repeat after me.'

Skandar listened as his father recited the incantation, and repeated it until he had learnt it by heart.

'Good. To wield it, all you must do is focus your energy upon the oath-bound victim and recite the words. Do you think you can do that?'

'Yes,' said Skandar.

'Practise it some more, then. When you are ready, I will teach you the next spell.'

Skraed taught his son three other spells that night – one for defence, one for concealment and a violent spell for attack. They were warrior spells – battle spells – of the sort not usually taught to children, and Skandar worked his hardest to remember them.

All the excitement of the lesson vanished very quickly. He realised soon enough that his father would not be teaching him these spells unless the situation was every bit as dire as he, Skandar, had imagined.

Later, when Arthryn had joined them and they ate a semblance of an evening meal together, something even more frightening occurred to him. But he said nothing. His parents didn't approve of displays of emotion.

But it kept nagging at him, in his head, as he lay down to sleep that night.

The riders came the next day, early in the morning. Somehow, Skandar had always imagined that they would come at night. But they came with the dawn.

King Graethen had posted sentinals in the trees, and they sounded the alert the instant the first of the dragons came in sight. Skandar, along with the other children in the settlement, were roused and ordered to dress before being brought into the meeting-space, where the communal fire had been put out. Adults – mainly women, most of them pregnant or cradling babies – formed themselves into a group with the children at the front. A few warriors stood behind them, but most of them hid themselves in and around the huts, armed and ready in case the order came to attack.

Graethen himself stood at the very front, wearing the silver _torix_. Skraed stood at his side, with Arthryn and Skandar. Waiting.

Skandar glanced sideways at Saethryn, standing with her own mother – her father was hiding with the warriors. She caught his eye, and they shared a frightened glance.

Above, in the pale morning sky, something huge was coming. And the closer it came, the more enormous it seemed.

It was a dragon; a white dragon.

Skandar had never in his life seen a real dragon, and this one filled him with sheer terror.

It was the biggest living creature he had ever seen – bigger than he had ever imagined. Its long body was all leg, wing, tail and neck – covered in hard scales as white as snow. It flew with massive, powerful blows of its wings, its huge head angled downward to watch the assembled dark elves.

The dragon did not land – there was nowhere near enough room for it to do so. It flew low over the settlement, low enough for Skandar to see the saddle strapped to its shoulders, just behind the base of its neck. It made one final turn, and as it passed over them again a ridiculously tiny figure fell from its back.

Skandar caught his breath. It was hurtling toward them, head-downward, it was going to be smashed to bits on the ground, any moment-

A hand-span above the heads of the crowd, the stranger suddenly barked a word. Instantly, he stopped. One moment he was falling, and the next he was there, hanging impossibly in midair, haloed in energy as white as the dragon's scales.

The stranger… the _rider_… said some more words – all in a language Skandar vaguely recognised. The energy pulsated around him, and he floated gently to the ground, landing on his feet a short distance away from King Graethen.

The rider adjusted his clothes and walked gracefully toward them.

Skandar stared, not quite believing his eyes. This was… an _elf._

But a revolting parody of one. His ears were pointed, but shaped wrongly, somehow, and they had no rings or studs to decorate them. His hair was white-blonde, not black, and he had pale blue eyes.

To Skandar, he looked like an elf who had been frozen in ice and then left in the sun for hundreds of years – sickeningly pale and colourless. His features were haughty and arrogant, and his tunic and leggings – even his boots – were pure white.

Skandar suddenly lost his fear as the elf came closer, and glared at him with utter disgust and hatred. His parents had been right. These Southern elves were revolting creatures.

King Graethen broke away from the group and stepped forward, holding up his hands to show he was unarmed. 'Hail, Lord Vrael, Master of Alagaësia,' he intoned – speaking the common tongue of humans.

The pale elf stopped to meet him. 'And you are?' his voice was as haughty as his face.

Graethen then did something that shocked Skandar. He bowed low, as a servant would to a master. 'I am Graethen Traeganni,' he said. 'I am the leader of my people, and I greet you humbly, Lord Vrael.'

Vrael's expression did not change. 'I find every bit of the false friendship and pathetic deception I had expected from you, _Myrkyr Álfr._ It pleases me to see you have not changed.'

Graethen did not react to the rider's hostility. 'Lord Vrael, I have no wish to fight and nor do any of my people. We have gathered to meet you so that you may see us for the helpless and harmless people we are.'

Vrael eyed the gathered women and children. 'A cunning and utterly useless gesture, to be certain I see nothing but youngsters and weaklings. Do not think you have fooled us, and do not think you can escape us this time.'

'Lord Vrael!' Graethen straightened up. 'Lord Vrael, we are a weak and tired people, and we have neither the strength nor the will to fight. We are utterly at your mercy. That is why I have waited here for you, so that when you came I could give you our complete surrender.'

Vrael started at that. 'Surrender?'

'Yes,' said Graethen. 'We will surrender to you, Lord Vrael. We will be your vassals forever. All we ask is that you spare our lives.'

It was clear that the pale elf had not been expecting this. 'Surrender, is it?'

'Yes,' said Graethen. 'If you are willing to discuss it.'

There was a silence after that… a long, painful silence. Skandar, watching and listening so intently that the world around him seemed to have vanished, couldn't breathe. _Please. Please…_

Finally, Vrael drew himself up. 'I am willing.'

Skandar breathed out. _Oh thankyou. Thankyou, sweet gods, thankyou…_

'Then we shall surrender,' said Graethen. 'But on only one condition.'

'Ah.' A faint, knowing smile played around Vrael's thin mouth. 'I should have seen this coming. What are your terms?'

'We will surrender utterly,' said Graethen. 'The lives of every man, woman and child in this village will belong to you. But to win that right, you must defeat me in single combat.'

Skandar stared. It was all he could do not to blurt out a "_what?"_

_No,_ he thought wildly. _No! This wasn't the plan, this wasn't…_

It was clear, from the sharp intakes of breath around him, that the others hadn't known either.

Vrael sighed. 'You wish to fight me?'

'Yes. If you defeat me, my people will surrender. But if I triumph, you will let us go and leave us unmolested forever.'

'Why should I trust you?' said Vrael. 'You – a lying dark elf, a master of treachery – why should I believe a word you say to me?'

'I may well ask the same question of you, _Gwelwa Choblyn_,' Graethen snapped. 'Or perhaps I am to take it that you are every bit as cowardly as your entire race always has been? Oh, we know your ways, pale elf, we know them well. Always hiding behind others, using humans and dragons to fight on your behalf lest you risk your own lives, scraping power for yourselves at every opportunity!'

At that, Vrael's eyes narrowed dangerously. 'I have a hundred well-armed and trained riders circling over this filthy little village,' he spat. 'You have no hope of escape. All I need do is speak a single word, and they will come down on your heads and crush you like the vermin you are.'

Graethen spat. 'I do not fear death. Fight me, coward. Fight me!'

Vrael reached up to his shoulder and drew a long sword with a white blade unlike anything Skandar had ever seen before. 'Oh, I shall,' he said. 'But only if your friends take oaths that they will not interfere, and only if _you_ swear that you will not use any of your vile magics on me.'

Skandar glanced at his father. _The light elf doesn't know our secret! _he crowed.

None of the crowd showed the merest flicker of triumph.

'I agree,' Graethen said stiffly. He placed a hand on his chest and said something in the same language Vrael had used earlier – the ancient language, Skandar now realised.

'Good,' said Vrael. 'And now your friends will take their own oath.'

The dark elves obediently spoke in the ancient language, taking an oath Skandar did not understand. He obligingly recited along with them, sounding the words out as well as he could. He had half-expected to feel some hint of magic while he did so, but nothing happened. _Because it doesn't work! It's all a trick! _He had to force himself not to snicker.

Once it was done, Graethen reached around to the back of his belt and drew his weapon – a kind of elongated sickle called a "moon fang" in dark elvish.

Holding it in one hand, he took up a fighting stance. 'Prepare yourself.'

Vrael did likewise – balancing himself with his sword held across his body to protect him. 'Go to the void, dark elf,' he snarled, and attacked.

Skandar felt his mother's hand tighten on his shoulder and pull him back. He went with her, but like all those there he didn't take his eyes away from the fight.

Graethen fought like all dark elves: silently but savagely, like a great cat. Vrael, for his part, was careful and refined. He handled his sword like someone who had been doing it for many long years and had learned to take his time and remain calm. But while Graethen looked calm and collected, Vrael's face was a mask of hatred.

Others, however, did more than merely watch the fight. Skandar felt his father tense behind him, and glanced up quickly. He, too, tensed.

Dragons were coming. A lot of them. They circled around Vrael's own steed, but none of them were white like it was. Skandar saw red, blue, yellow, brown, green, and one large one whose scales were beautiful burnished gold. They circled around their master, with a uniform, intent look to their flight that made Skandar deeply frightened.

After a moment, apparently having received some order from the white dragon, they began to spread out. Some stayed in the air, patrolling over the settlement and the forest, while others flew low as Vrael's dragon had done, allowing their riders to leap from their backs. It happened in a matter of moments.

Skandar looked around, turning this way and that in a panic. They were everywhere – light elves, walking silently through the settlement, strange coloured swords drawn. Skandar saw them go into the huts and search around them – turning over handcarts and hacking through the small cornfield. They were looking for the hidden dark elvish warriors.

He panicked, tugging at his father's arm to try and make him do something, but Skraed did not move, and nor did any of the others still watching Vrael and Graethen fight.

_Why aren't they doing anything? What's wrong with them? Why don't they stop them?_

But none of them did, and Skandar had to stay where he was and watch. Every moment he expected to hear shouts, or even the clash of weapons – something to signal that the hiding warriors had been found.

Nothing happened. Eventually the riders, apparently deciding their search was fruitless, formed themselves into a ring around the assembled dark elves and the sparring leaders.

Skandar knew very little about swordplay, and in any case this fight was moving far too fast for him to follow. One moment Vrael would be drawing back, sword pulled back to swing or thrust, the next Graethen would be darting past the pale elf's defences to strike with his sickle. Neither of them showed any sign of noticing the ring of riders.

But at that moment, as Skandar began to feel sick with fear, the fight turned.

There was a shriek and a clash of steel, a shout, and suddenly Graethen was backing away. His sickle's blade had snapped clean in half. Skandar saw the broken half land in the dirt at Vrael's feet.

The Lord of the Riders advanced, his pale eyes glowing. He pointed his sword at Graethen's throat. 'Yield.'

The King of the dark elves hesitated. Just for an instant, his eyes flicked toward Skraed.

He straightened up, and threw down the remains of his weapon. 'I yield.'

Vrael's eyes glinted. 'Kneel.'

Graethen sighed – a heavy, defeated sigh. Then he knelt, bowing his head. 'I yield,' he repeated.

'Good,' said Vrael. He took one step closer to his defeated enemy and touched his swordblade to the back of his neck. 'Dark elves,' he intoned. 'Your time is at an end. And so is the life of this fool who dared call himself a King.' He placed his feet well apart, and lifted the sword for one final stroke.

'_No!_'

Skraed's voice rang out, loud and commanding. Vrael stopped his sword and looked up as the dark elvish prince handed his son to Arthryn and stepped into the ring.

'You dare interfere?' the rider snapped.

Skraed held up his hands, palm-forward. 'Please,' he said. 'Stop now.'

'Stand back,' said Vrael. '_Now.'_

Skraed went to his father and put a hand on his shoulder. 'You have won, Lord Vrael. Our surrender is assured, and there is no need to kill my father. Have you not humiliated and subjugated him? Is that not enough?'

'You have no right to dictate to me what I should do, shadow's spawn,' Vrael sneered. 'I am in command of you and yours now.' He raised a hand and shouted in the ancient language. Instantly, pure white light sprang from his palm. It hit Skraed square in the chest and hurled him backward.

Almost as soon as he had hit the ground, Vrael raised his sword again, and struck.

Skandar screamed.

After that, it all seemed to happen slowly – captured in time like a dream. He remembered strange things. The dull thud of Graethen's body hitting the ground. The creak of leather as Vrael turned lightly on his heel and pointed at the fallen Skraed.

'The rest of these fools may live,' he said, his harsh, imperious voice biting into Skandar's ears. 'But I cannot accept vassals who will rebel… or who carry the blood of the King. Oromis… Yansan… kill him.'

Skraed struggled to his feet as the two riders advanced on him. He spat blood at Vrael's feet. 'You will die for this, murderer.'

Oromis, a blonde-haired elf with a soft, babyish face, drew a gold-bladed sword. 'Do not try and fight back, prince,' he said. 'Give up your life easily, and the rest of your people will be spared.'

Skraed cast an agonised look at Skandar and Arthryn. 'My family.'

Vrael looked directly at them. 'Thankyou for reminding us. Calath – kill the boy.'

Another elf came forward, holding a silver sword. Arthryn drew back, pulling Skandar with her. 'No-,'

Calath held out a hand. 'Give him up, woman.'

Yansan and Oromis had Skraed by the shoulders. 'No!' he shouted. 'Leave him alone – he's just a boy!'

'Finish it!' Vrael ordered.

In that moment, Skandar forgot everything. He twisted out of his mother's grasp and ran straight at the two riders holding Skraed. 'FATHER!'

Oromis reached out to stop him, but Skandar twisted aside and caught him by the wrist, pulling him sideways with all his strength. The elf was pulled off-balance, and that was all the chance Skraed needed. He wrenched himself free and hurled himself at Vrael.

'Dark elves!' he screamed, reverting to their own tongue. 'Fight! _Fight!'_

The effect was instantaneous. The riders, not knowing the dark elvish language, were caught by surprise as the warriors of the village erupted into the sunlight and attacked.

After that, it was chaos.

Skandar fought through the crowd, trying to find his father, but both he and Vrael had vanished among the struggling or fleeing elves. As Skandar shoved his way toward the place where he thought they were, he stumbled into the path of a dark elvish warrior charging at a rider. The warrior shoved him aside without glancing at him, and he went sprawling into the dirt.

Skandar scrabbled away from the fight, gasping in fright, and tried to get up.

A hand seized him by the shoulder and dragged him backward. He screamed and struggled, but the hand pulled him to his feet and the next thing he knew his mother was pulling him away with her.

He ran awkwardly beside her, dodging anything that got in the way, though his mind was still on his father. The other dark elves moved to let them past, and when a pair of riders began to pursue them they attacked them, shouting, 'Protect the Lady Arthryn! Protect Prince Skandar!'

The diversion worked, and Skandar breathed deeply when he realised he was away from the fight. 'Mother-!'

Arthryn gripped his arm. 'Are you hurt?'

'No. Mother-,'

'Come. We must find a place to hide.'

'But Father-,'

'We cannot do anything to help him,' said Arthryn. 'He will find us later. Now hurry. We must go back to our home and take whatever we can find…'

'But Mother-,' he was cut off mid-sentence as she began to haul him away again. He went with her for a short distance, too frightened and confused to do otherwise, but his senses came back to him and he tugged at her arm. 'Mother, listen!'

Arthryn glanced back briefly. 'Not now, Skandar.'

'But Mother, I already have somewhere for us to hide,' said Skandar. 'There's food there.'

She stopped. 'What?'

'I found a hiding-place,' Skandar said quickly. 'I made a trail, and there's a place to hide and some food and a knife.'

Arthryn hesitated for the fraction of a second, head turned to look back at the fight now beginning in the village. Then she turned to Skandar. '_Show me.'_


	3. The End of All

Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

**The End of All**

Skandar and Arthryn sprinted through the village, with Skandar quickly taking the lead. He could hear screaming and shouting from behind him, but he closed his ears and darted away toward the simple wooden Moon Temple. Behind it was the start of one of his trails. He stopped there, and showed Arthryn one of the marks.

'See?' he said. 'I made it. There's more; you just follow them.'

Arthryn clasped his shoulder. 'Well done, Skandar. How far does it go?'

'This one's long,' said Skandar. 'It goes to the river. I told Saethryn about one of the others, told her to use it.'

'Then let us follow it,' said Arthryn. 'Keep to the trees.'

'You go first,' said Skandar.

Arthryn slipped into the forest. As Skandar moved to follow her, a roar from overhead made him look up.

_Dragon!_

Skandar saw the great beast swoop low over the trees, straight toward him, roaring. Instinctively, he threw himself flat, pressing himself into the ground. He actually felt the wind from the dragon's wings as it passed over him, and gritted his teeth to stop himself from crying out.

It took him a long moment to recover, but the thought that the dragon was coming back made him get up and look skyward again. He saw it, but it was flying over the settlement now and didn't look like it was coming back.

'_Skandar!'_

He turned quickly and saw his mother gesturing urgently at him from the safety of the trees. He started toward her, and then…

And then the world exploded.

Skandar woke up in pain.

Someone was pulling roughly at his shoulder.

'…this one's alive,' said a distant voice.

Skandar moaned and moved his hand. 'Mother…'

The hands hauled him to his feet. He blinked, trying to wake himself up. His head felt broken, and his left side throbbed unbearably.

The hands were already pulling him away. He was too weak and confused to resist, and even if he had he could feel the dangerous strength in them.

As he tottered along after his captor, his vision began to come back. He caught confused glimpses of some place… dirt, there was dirt everywhere, and pieces of wood. It all looked black and grey. The air was thick and choking… he smelled smoke, and something else, something like burning stone. _What is this place? Where am I?_

Ahead, he saw people waiting. Elves. Pale elves.

Skandar finally came to his senses, and began to struggle. But his captor's hands held him fast. They twisted his arm behind his back until pain shot through the joints, and shoved him forward.

'I've found the boy, Lord Vrael.'

The white-haired elf was already stepping forward to meet them, clutching his sword. Its white blade had turned dark with blood.

Skandar tried to pull away – to run, or to attack… he didn't know which.

The Lord of the Riders grabbed him by the hair and forced his head up, scrutinising his face. He smiled thinly. 'The spitting image of his father. Tell me, boy, what is your name?'

Skandar didn't answer, and the elf holding him twisted his arm until the bone cracked and he screamed.

'Your name, boy,' Vrael rapped out.

'Skandar,' he whimpered. 'Skandar Traeganni.'

'Bearer of the blood of Tynath Traeganni, the one-eyed traitor,' Vrael remarked. 'But of course, your race has always bred traitors. At least until now. Calath, hold him still.'

Skandar's captor obeyed, and the Lord of the Riders lifted his sword, bringing it up until the point touched the hollow of the boy's throat. 'So ends the traitor's blood,' he breathed. 'So ends the shadows.'

Skandar, feeling blood begin to trickle down his chest, saw the pale elf's arm tense as he prepared to drive it home, and the instant stretched out into an eternity. He realised he was going to die.

'_Vrael!'_

Vrael hesitated, glancing over his shoulder.

A woman had stepped forward from the group of riders, and now she came closer and took hold of her master's arm. 'Vrael,' she said again. 'Stop.'

Vrael stared blankly at her, and then withdrew his sword. 'Saraswati, what are you doing?'

Saraswati, a yellow-haired human, looked at Skandar. Then she looked at Vrael. 'You can't do this,' she said. 'Vrael, please. Enough is enough.'

'Saraswati, this has to be done,' said Vrael. 'You know it does. For as long as the dark elves exist, Alagaësia will never be safe. You cannot imagine the evils they have done.'

Saraswati touched his cheek. 'Vrael,' she said softly. 'Look at him.'

They both did. Skandar looked back at them in silence.

'He's a child, Vrael,' said Saraswati. 'Not a monster or a tyrant. How can you even contemplate killing a child? We are riders; we must lead by example, and cherish life. What would we become if we stooped to killing children?'

Vrael sighed. 'Saraswati… you do not understand. This _child_ is a prince – the last of the dark elvish royal line. Today I have killed his father and his grandfather – do you think he will not grow up wishing for nothing but my destruction – _our_ destruction? A threat is best destroyed before it becomes a threat.'

Saraswati looked troubled. 'But surely there's another way. Some way to spare them.'

'_Spare them_.' Vrael looked at Skandar. 'Do you see his face, Saraswati? See his eyes?' he reached out to touch Skandar's cheeks. 'Dry,' he said, showing the woman his hand. 'He has just learned that his father and grandfather are dead, and yet he does not cry. Now do you understand?'

Saraswati hesitated.

'He is a dark elf,' said Vrael. 'Dark elves do not cry, and nor do they feel pain, or love. They are creatures cursed by the night and the shadows – they have no hearts.'

Saraswati laid a hand on Vrael's thin chest. 'But you do,' she said simply.

Vrael shook his head and gently pushed her aside. 'I am your Lord,' he said. 'And the final decision is mine. Unless-,'

'My Lord.' Another rider stepped forward. 'Lord Vrael,' he said formally. 'I…'

'Yes, Yansan?'

Yansan, another human, clad in brown, bowed his head. 'I agree with Lady Saraswati.'

'I see.' Vrael looked at the other riders. 'And you?' he said. 'What do you say?'

There was a pause, and several others also stepped forward. None of them were elves.

Vrael sighed and rubbed his forehead. 'Then what do you propose we do with them, pray tell?'

'We could exile them,' said Saraswati.

'They would return!' Vrael snapped. 'We cannot bind them to oaths – they will break them!'

One of the riders who had not stepped forward coughed. 'My Lord…'

Vrael straightened up. 'Lord Oromis, what is it?'

Oromis pushed past his fellow riders and bowed very briefly. 'I believe I have a solution, my Lord.'

'Yes?'

Oromis looked at Skandar, lips pursed. 'I have a spell that I have devised,' he said. 'And which I have been enthusiastic to… test on a living subject.'

'Which spell?' said Vrael.

Oromis glanced at Skandar again and dropped into the ancient language, conversing rapidly with Vrael. The Lord of the Riders listened, and when their conversation was done he nodded and said, 'I see. And then what do you propose we do with them?'

'Anything we choose,' said Oromis. 'They will be harmless by then.'

Vrael smiled thinly and nodded. 'Yes… I agree to your suggestion, Lord Oromis. The captives are yours.'

Saraswati looked horrified. 'Vrael, you cannot-,'

'My word is final,' Vrael said sharply. 'And your wish is granted. The children will be allowed to live.'

'But-,'

Vrael ignored her. He snapped his fingers in Skandar's direction. 'Take him to the others and let us leave this forsaken place. I wish to be back at Ilirea before nightfall.'

Skandar had no will to fight any more, or even to think, and he stared blankly at Vrael as he was taken away and into captivity.

Arthryn, hidden in a shadow, saw the riders depart. She had stayed where she was for a long time, having watched from a safe distance in the hopes that there would be the chance to do something. But inside she knew that chance would not come.

The dragons flew away at a leisurely pace, none of them injured or even tired. They had destroyed the entire settlement as easily as if it were an antheap.

Arthryn saw the children go with them.

She did not move until the last of them had vanished on the horizon. As the midday sun blazed down, she dared to re-enter the village.

Or what was left of it.

She walked slowly past the still-burning ruins of the huts, unable to comprehend what she was seeing. Not one single building was left standing. Where the Moon Temple had been there was nothing but a crater of scorched earth, left by the explosive weapon the riders had dropped.

As Arthryn approached the centre of the village, she found the bodies.

Dozens of dark elves – men and women, even children and the elderly – lay where they had fallen, without even the dignity of being laid out, let alone given burials or a pyre.

Arthryn picked her way through them like one in a dream, already knowing what she would find.

Graethen lay near the well. One of his arms had been hacked off at the elbow, and a sword-blow had turned his face into an unrecogniseable mess of mangled flesh and bone.

Arthryn found his crown, lying beside his outstretched hand, and silently picked it up.

Skraed lay not far away. He had been stabbed so many times that his chest had broken open like an egg.

Arthryn knelt beside him, reaching out to touch his face. But it was cold and rigid, and it didn't look like him any more. _It's a thing,_ she thought. _Only a thing now. Not him. He's not here any more. He left this behind. _

'Sleep now, my beloved,' she whispered, touching his hand. 'Sleep and forget pain, and know the stars…'

She could not stay with him, and she knew it. The riders could come back, and if they did…

Pain – deep, mortal pain – burned in her chest as she stumbled away. It was over. Finished. The settlement was gone, and so were its people. _Gone. All gone. All gone. _

She heard a distant beating of wings, and looked up to see a dragon coming. The riders had sent one of their own back for one final look. Arthryn paused for an instant to look up at it, and then melted away into the wood.


	4. Chains

Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

**Chains**

It was utterly dark in this place – so dark that even Skandar's dark elvish eyes could not see his hand in front of his face.

He sat against the wall where he had dragged himself, and tugged pointlessly at the shackles around his wrists. They had been made for a grown man, and the riders had used magic to shrink them, but they were so heavy he could barely lift his arms. But even if he had been able to get them off, he knew he would never get out of this place.

There was a rattling of chains from somewhere to his left, and a voice whispered. 'Who is that?'

Skandar stirred. 'Who…?'

The unseen speaker dragged toward him. 'Skandar? Prince Skandar?'

'Arenadd?'

The other boy's voice was thick with relief. 'Prince Skandar! It _is_ you!'

'Arenadd, how did you get here?'

'The same way we all did,' another voice interrupted.

'Hafwyn?'

'Yes. Adara and Saer and Maddoc are here too.'

'And me,' said a third voice. 'Morwenna. Timotheus is here too.'

That was almost all the children in the village.

'What about Saethryn?' said Skandar. 'Is she here?'

The others muttered amongst themselves.

'I never saw her,' said Adara.

'Neither did I,' said Morwenna.

_Maybe she got away, then,_ Skandar thought. _Please, moon, let her get away. Keep her safe._

'Where are we?'

'I don't know,' said Saer. 'I was unconscious when they brought me here.'

'_I_ know where we are,' Arenadd interrupted bitterly. 'Ilirea. They couldn't have brought us anywhere else.'

Skandar felt his heart wither and die inside him. 'Oh moon,' he moaned. 'Oh sweet Night God. My father is dead. My father…'

'So are my father and my mother as well,' Arenadd said in a terrible, flat voice. 'I saw them die.'

'They are _all_ dead,' said Morwenna. 'You must know that, Skandar. You were not there to see it all, but I was. I hid in one of the huts, and watched the riders kill them. My mother and father tried to protect me, and died. The one called Oromis stabbed my mother in the throat and did not stop to see her die. He cut my father's face in half.'

Saer let out a low moan. 'We are finished,' she said. '_Finished._ My father was right. The riders have destroyed us. We here are the only survivors. And soon the riders shall kill us, too.'

'Be quiet,' Arenadd snapped. 'It is never too late to have hope.' He reached out to touch Skandar in the dark. 'Our Prince is with us,' he said. 'And now… now he is more than that.'

'I am nothing,' Skandar said quietly.

'Your father and grandfather are dead,' said Arenadd. 'Now, you are our King, Skandar.'

Skandar stared blankly at the darkness. All of a sudden, he wanted to laugh. 'King? Arenadd…'

'Yes,' said Arenadd. 'We are the last of the dark elves, and you are the only one of us who is of royal blood. You are our King, and you must protect us.'

The others chorused their agreement.

'Lead us, King Skandar,' Arenadd said fervently.

'I… I will try,' said Skandar.

'I trust you,' said Arenadd.

'So do I,' said Morwenna.

That gave Skandar some courage.

'Well,' he said. 'Well. Then we shall have to come up with a plan,' he said, trying his best to sound resolute the way his father would have been.

'We need to find a way out of here,' said Saer.

'Feel the walls,' said Skandar. 'Touch them – search for weak points.'

He began to do just that, and he could hear clanking and muffled thumps as the others joined in.

The walls were utterly smooth, without even the slightest trace of joins or gaps. It was as if the cell had been grown, not built.

'Then the only way out is through the door,' Skandar decided.

'Which is locked,' said Morwenna.

'Then we will have to wait until it opens,' said Skandar. 'And when it does, we shall…'

'What shall we do?' said Arenadd.

'We shall attack,' said Skandar, still trying to sound certain. 'Arenadd, you and I will wait close to the door, and attack whoever opens it. We will keep them busy, and the rest of you will run.'

'But we cannot leave you,' said Adara.

'I am your King,' said Skandar. 'You will do what I tell you.'

Arenadd chuckled. 'Yes, Sire, we shall indeed.'

It was a long, long time before anything happened. The children sat huddled together, whispering to comfort each other as the hours dragged by. No-one came to bring them food or drink, and before long Skandar's mouth was painfully dry. His head still throbbed, and he longed for a drink of water to soothe the pain.

He hugged his knees and thought of the spells his father had taught him – particularly the one meant for attack. The words were still in his mind, and he repeated them silently until they were clear and sharp. They were words that could hurl black flames at an enemy – flames that could reduce a man to ashes in an instant.

Skandar thought of using them on Vrael, and his eyes burned with a hatred more intense than he had ever known. He focused on that image with all his might, concentrating on it and muttering the words under his breath. In his head, the dark flames struck Vrael in the face and burned it to nothing. Skandar pictured it again and again, loving it. _Burn,_ he thought. _You will burn, pale elf._

Something occurred to him, and he nudged Arenadd.

'What is it, Sire?'

'Arenadd, do you know attacking magic?' said Skandar. 'Spells that can kill – did you ever learn them?'

'No,' said Arenadd. 'I asked my mother, but she said I was too young and it was too dangerous.'

'Well I do,' said Skandar. 'Listen; I can teach you.'

Arenadd moved closer. 'Tell me.'

So Skandar taught him the words, repeating them to the other boy as Skraed had done and making Arenadd recite them until he knew them by heart.

'When they come, use them,' Skandar whispered. 'We can kill them; I know it.'

Arenadd was trembling slightly. 'Yes, Sire. You should teach the others, too.'

Skandar did. He taught them the spell for defence, too, and the one for oath-breaking. They repeated them dutifully, and he could tell they were heartened by what he had done. They were only children, but their magic was nearly as strong as an adult's, and it could be the saving of them. Skandar hoped so.

_I don't care if I die,_ he thought. _As long as I can kill Vrael. _

He kept that vow in his mind for the rest of his time in that cell.

When the door finally did open, it happened so suddenly and after such a long time that it took them utterly by surprise. Skandar, sitting close to it and sunk in a haze of misery, jerked forward as the light bit into his eyes. He struggled to get up, hampered by the chains, while around him the others tried to pull away from the open door, where a tall figure had already stepped into the cell.

Skandar found his feet. 'Arenadd!' he yelled. 'Where are you?'

The elf who had opened the door said something to his companion and came forward, reaching out to catch Saer by the arm.

Skandar lurched forward and put himself in the way. 'Stay away!' he shouted in the common tongue.

The elf sneered and raised a hand to hit him.

Skandar took a deep breath, concentrated on opening the channel to his store of magic, and said the words of the spell.

An instant later, a brutal blow smacked into the side of his head and he staggered to the floor, landing hard against the wall. Stars exploded in his vision, but he managed to drag himself into a sitting position as more shouting broke out.

The elf had taken Saer and was dragging her away. Most of the others were too frightened to try and stop him, but Arenadd – a burly boy older than Skandar – took Saer by the arm and tried to pull her free. The elf guard lashed out at him with magic, sending him flying. Unimpeded, he took Saer to the door and handed her to his companion. They had a brief, muttered conference, and he came back into the cell and took Morwenna as well. She fought wildly, screaming the words that should have unleashed her own magic, but nothing happened.

The door slammed, and they were gone. Just like that, they were gone.

Hands pulled Skandar to his feet. 'Sire? Sire, are you hurt?'

Arenadd's voice. Skandar leant on his friend's arm. 'The magic,' he said blankly. 'The magic. It didn't work! Why wouldn't it work?'

'I tried to help,' said Adara. 'I tried to break into his mind. I couldn't. I couldn't do it. Nothing happened. I was trapped.'

'My magic did not work either,' said Arenadd. 'But I said the words, and I have always been good with magic. I don't understand what happened. And now Morwenna… Saer…'

Maddoc clutched at Skandar's arm. 'Where have they gone, Sire? Where did they take them? What are they going to do to them?'

'I don't know,' said Skandar. 'But our magic…'

'Maybe the pale elf was stopping us,' Arenadd suggested. 'Maybe now he is not here, it will work again.'

'Adara, try to use magic,' said Skandar. 'Any spell.'

She did, reciting the words that would create a breeze. The air in the cell stayed utterly still.

'Maddoc – you try too,' said Skandar. 'All of you, try!'

They obeyed. Skandar heard them recite all kinds of spells. Simple spells, complex spells… all the spells they had ever been taught. But nothing happened.

He tried himself, this time trying to reach out with his mind to contact the others. But he couldn't do it. His mind stayed trapped within his body, without the power to do anything outside. Nor could he access his magic.

'There is only one reason this could be,' Arenadd said at last, in bitter tones. 'The pale elves have taken it from us somehow – used their own magic to prevent us. What else could it be? They could not let us keep our magic, or we would have been able to fight our way out of here by now.'

'What will we do now?' Timotheus wailed.

Skandar tried desperately to think. 'If we cannot fight with magic, then we will have to fight with our hands. Perhaps we can use our chains as weapons…'

But it was a hopeless suggestion, and he knew it.

Some hours later the guards returned. This time, they took Maddoc and Adara. Neither of them returned, and nor did Morwenna or Saer.

The guards came again, much more quickly than they had before. This time, they took Arenadd. The boy fought like a wolf, screaming threats, and Skandar and Timotheus tried to help, but the guard merely hurled them aside with magic and used another spell to paralyse Arenadd's limbs.

Then he, too, was gone.

The wait that followed that seemed far longer than any that had gone before. Skandar and Timotheus stayed close together, but neither of them said anything.

When the door opened again, Timotheus began to pray aloud to the moon to save him.

This time, both guards came in. One took Timotheus by the scruff of the neck and lifted him to his feet. The other took Skandar.

Skandar had thought of trying to fight back, but he didn't. Despair had eaten away at his strength, and he stumbled out of the cell and into a blindingly white corridor, whose walls were rounded and utterly smooth. The guard walked off along it, pushing him ahead, and Skandar numbly obeyed, his ears full of a strange roaring sound, as of rushing water.

Ahead, the corridor opened up into an enormous chamber. It looked smaller than it was, because there was a golden dragon squatting in it.

The guard took Skandar in and forced him to sit down on a bench by the door, shackling his wrists to it so he couldn't stand up. The other guard took Timotheus on toward the dragon.

Skandar, watching, felt his stomach lurch. _It's going to eat him. They're feeding us to it. _

But the golden dragon only shifted where it sat and made a low, grunting, grumbling sound, as if it were merely bored. In front of it, standing under its outstretched lowe jaw, was another elf – one Skandar recognised.

The guard brought Timotheus to a spot just in front of the elf, and forced him to kneel before securing his chains to a ring set in the floor. That done, he retreated and went to sit on Skandar's other side.

The elf with the dragon took a step toward Timotheus, and as he spoke, Skandar remembered his name. Oromis.

Oromis crouched to examine Timotheus, stroking his hair and mouthing something Skandar couldn't hear. Timotheus tried to pull away, but his chains brought him up short, and Oromis abruptly straightened up and moved back. He placed his legs well apart, bracing himself, then held his right hand out in front of him, palm first, and began to recite a spell.

It was a long and complex-sounding one, and though Skandar could not understand the words they filled him with dread.

Without warning, golden light shot from Oromis' palm. It hit Timotheus on the forehead and spread to cover his entire body, haloing him in its beautiful radiance.

Almost immediately, Timotheus began to scream.

Skandar, rooted to the spot, watched as if hypnotised – unable to move or speak, too terrified even to speak.

The light increased, and Timotheus' screams rose and took on a jagged edge. He began to thrash wildly, jerking like a landed fish, screaming as if his every nerve were on fire.

Oromis stood utterly still, his face composed, feeding his energies into the spell while sweat beaded on his forehead. He looked as if he had not heard a thing.

After one long, nightmarish moment, it was over. Oromis suddenly lowered his hand as the light faded, and Timotheus slumped onto his side and lay still. The elf paused to mop his forehead and then bent eagerly to examine the boy, touching his neck and patting his face. He paused abruptly, and shook his head.

One of the guards went to him and unshackled Timotheus' limp body. Timotheus did not stir as he was dragged out of the room.

Then it was Skandar's turn.

Everything had turned grey around him. He was vaguely aware that he struggled, vaguely aware that he screamed too, though he didn't know what he was saying or even if he was only screaming.

It made no difference.

The guard shoved him to his knees and secured him to the floor, and he looked up, wild-eyed, to see Oromis' cherubic face.

The red lips pursed. 'Poor little boy,' Oromis simpered. 'You must be so terrified. But rejoice! You are helping us to do a great thing, yes?' As he spoke, he reached out to touch Skandar's face, stroking his cheek in a way that made the boy feel sick. 'Poor thing. Be calm now; I will not hurt you. Not _you. _After all, you are a prince, are you not? Oh yes.' He tittered as he stood up. 'Well now, be calm…'

And he spoke the spell.

Skandar felt the pain begin the moment the light touched him. He tried to resist it for as long as he could, fighting back the scream catching in his throat. But not even the most stoic of warriors could have resisted this, and Skandar was only a child.

And he could feel it all the while, above the unbearable burning of the magic on his skin. Could feel his heart being torn out.

The darkness, when it came, seemed like paradise.


	5. Stolen Life

Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

**Stolen Life**

'_Sssrr… skr… skdr… Skandar… _Skandar! _Skandar! Skandar!'_

Skandar's eyes opened very slowly, as if they had forgotten how. When they did, he realised he was blind.

Someone was shaking him by the shoulder and calling his name. 'Skandar. Skandar. Skandar.' They said it over and over again, in a strange, flat voice.

Skandar felt no urge to respond. He lay limp and still, staring at the darkness that had become his world, and thought of nothing. His mind was as blank as his vision.

The voice continued to call him. He thought he could hear another voice somewhere, screaming or crying… speaking gibberish. It didn't sound as if it belonged to a person, or even an animal.

Skandar closed his eyes again, and the world went away.

When he woke again, the feeling of blank peace lasted only a few seconds. Agonising pain gripped his body when he tried to move, and he screamed. But the sound came out as something strange and thin, and it died away almost at once.

Something hit him in the arm, and it gave him so much pain he thougth his bones had shattered. 'Skandar. _Skandar.'_

Skandar, lying spreadeagled on his back, began to sob uncontrollably. _Pain,_ his mind screamed. _Pain, the pain…_

'Skandar,' the voice persisted. 'Skandar, open your eyes. _Open your eyes!'_

His eyes obeyed, but they saw nothing but a grey haze. Skandar tried to speak, but only a strange moaning noise came out.

'Can you see me?' said the voice. 'Sire? Skandar?'

Skandar could not, and the voice hurt his ears. He moved his lips, trying to speak again. When that failed, he tried to reach out with his mind. But that caused so much pain he nearly fainted.

'Sleep, then,' said the voice. 'Rest, until you're better.'

Skandar did, after a fashion – drifting in a sea of pain that seemed to go forever. He thought he was going insane.

But eventually the pain did pass. He never could tell how long it lasted.

He woke up to the grey haze, and the sound of a voice. Not a voice he knew.

'…left.'

'And that one?' another unfamiliar voice. 'There, lying down.'

'As close to dead as makes no difference,' said the first voice. 'We may as well dispose of him.'

He heard a clang, as of metal, and a dragging sound. But all of it sounded as if it were coming from somewhere far away, where it did not matter or mean anything.

Something was pulling hard on his arm. 'Skandar,' a voice hissed. '_Skandar, wake up! Please, wake up!'_

A voice he knew this time, from somewhere. Skandar wanted to slip away again, but the voice persisted, carrying an edge of desperation now, and it brought him inevitably back.

He stirred, bracing himself for the pain to come back. His body twinged, but not unberably, and he moved his arm, groping for something he could hold onto.

Another hand grasped it. 'Get up!' said the voice. 'Skandar, _get up now! Quickly!'_

Driven by the very real fear in the demand, Skandar began to struggle with his own limp body. He felt clumsy, as if he were made out of wood, and weak… horribly weak.

His friend helped him, pulling him into a sitting position and urging him to open his eyes.

Skandar did, and that seemed to reassure his friend.

'Good. Good. Keep them open.' Then, more loudly, 'Stay away! _Stay away from him, damn you! _He's not dead! Leave him alone!'

Skandar felt as if something or someone much larger than himself had come near, but they moved away, and he relaxed.

His friend stayed close. 'Skandar. Thank the moon you woke up; they were going to throw you away like the others. Skandar? Skandar, can you hear me? Skandar, please, talk to me. _Please.'_

Skandar coughed. He was so weak it made his entire body shake. 'W… ca…' he coughed again, trying to clear his throat, but his voice felt as clumsy as his body.

'Be calm,' his friend advised. 'Breathe deeply. Don't over-exert yourself, Sire, I only… I only want to know if you're all right.'

Skandar tried again. 'C… can't…' _a word!_ 'Can't,' he repeated. 'Who…'

'It's me, Arenadd,' said the voice. 'Sire, please… are you in pain? Nod if you are.'

Very slowly and shakily, Skandar shook his head.

'You can understand me,' said Arenadd, his voice thick with relief.

Skandar nodded. The more he sat up and listened to Arenadd's voice, the clearer his mind became. His hearing was becoming sharper too. He blinked.

'Sire? Skandar?'

Skandar blinked again, harder and harder. _Oh moon. Oh sweet shadows…_

'Skandar?'

He put a hand his his face, feeling it clumsily. His skin felt cold, but he couldn't find any injuries. He rubbed his eyes frantically, but that only made them hurt.

Arenadd touched him on the shoulder. 'Skandar?'

Skandar turned his head toward the sound of his voice. 'Arenadd,' he said thickly.

'Skandar. What's wrong?'

'Arenadd, I'm blind.'

Arnenadd groaned softly. 'Oh moon, not you too.'

'Not…?'

'Sire, I…'

Everything had come back now, and Skandar felt cold horror trickle into his chest. 'The others. Arenadd, the others – where are they? What happened?'

'I don't know what they did to us,' Arenadd said bitterly. 'But their magic did worse things to the others than it did to me, or even you.'

'What?' Skandar repeated. 'What things, what…?'

'Saer is dead, Sire. So is Adara. Timotheus is… he's gone mad, Sire. Morwenna is alive, and I think she might live.'

'You?' said Skandar. 'What about… you?'

'I'm strong, Sire,' said Arenadd, in a terrible flat voice. 'I was lucky. I've stayed by you – you've been unconscious two days. We thought you would die too.'

Skandar barely heard him. Blind, he was blind… _oh moon save me, how can I live without my eyes? _

'I don't know what they're going to do with us now,' said Arenadd. 'Kill us, maybe, now they've had their use out of us… or maybe use us for more experiments until we're all dead… I feel so _weak._'

'So do I,' Skandar mumbled. 'Maybe it will come back.'

'Like your sight, Sire,' said Arenadd.

_Maybe._

Two more days dragged by – days full of fear, and pain. Skandar's strength did come back, little by little, and his sight improved too, though only enough to let him see the vaguest shapes in the grey gloom that had become his world.

Arenadd, too, said he felt stronger, and Morwenna, apparently somewhat recovered, came to speak to Skandar as well.

Skandar heard Timotheus too, but the only other survivor of Oromis' spell had nothing left to say. He screamed and gibbered, sometimes hurling himself mindlessly against the bars of the cage where they now lived. The others tried to calm him down and talk to him, but he didn't respond to anything they did. His ravings and convulsions worsened, and on the second day, late in the afternoon, he went to sleep and never woke up.

On that same day, the prisoners had another visitor. Skandar, unable to see him, recognised the imperious voice at once.

'So I take it these are the only survivors?'

'Yes, my Lord.' Oromis' simpering tones. 'It seems another one has died today. But the rest seem strong enough. I think they will live.'

'I see. And are your experiments complete?'

'They cannot be repeated, my Lord. And it does not matter in any case; they were a complete success.'

'Yes, I can see that,' said the first speaker, in caustic tones.

'I mean in the case of the survivors, Lord Vrael,' said Oromis. 'I have probed their minds very thoroughly, and I am completely certain of it. All three of those children have been crippled of their magic – they will never cast even the simplest spell again. I have taken their immortality, along with all their psychic abilities. They are no better than humans with pointed ears.'

Vrael sounded pleased. 'You are completely certain?'

'Beyond a shadow of a doubt. Look into their minds yourself if you wish; you will see my report is correct.'

A silence, and Skandar cringed as he felt an unfamiliar presence thrust itself into his mind. It stayed there for a few moments, and then withdrew.

'I see,' said Vrael's voice. 'Excellent work, Lord Oromis.'

'So as you can see, my Lord – they are utterly harmless,' said Oromis, in smug tones. 'In fact, I would say they are ready to be disposed of in any way you see fit, my Lord.'

'They must be killed,' said Vrael.

'My Lord…'

'Yes? What is it?'

'I had hoped… funding for that project in Dras-Leona is scarce, and I had thought that perhaps… with the slave market in a slump of late…'

'Sell them?' said Vrael.

'Yes, my Lord. After all, they can do no harm. And I see it as harsh justice, given what their kind would have done to us had they won the struggle for supremacy.'

'Oromis, we cannot risk it,' said Vrael. 'What if they were to escape? Powerless they may be, but they are still dark elves.'

'Be calm, my Lord,' said Oromis. 'If it comforts you…'

'Yes?'

'I have studied extensively, my Lord,' said Oromis. 'You know well how much an elf's magic is a part of him. Now they have lost theirs, these children have almost certainly been rendered sterile. They will never spawn more of their kind. And to be on the safe side,' he added, 'I shall see to it that they are sold to mines and other out-of-the-way places, where they will be well out of our subject's eyes.'

Silence.

'Very well then,' Vrael said eventually. 'I am satisfied. Do with them what you will.'

In the end, Skandar's sight did indeed return. It came back bit by bit – shapes becoming slowly clearer and clearer, until he could recognise first objects, then faces. His strength came back too, or a little of it, but deep down he knew he would never be as strong as he had been. Morwenna too recovered, and Arenadd, but none of the three spoke of escape or revenge again. All of them knew the last of their hope had gone.

Mere days after Vrael's visit, when Skandar's sight was partway back to normal, the three children were taken out of their cage and out of Ilirea, to where a number of carts awaited. Skandar was hauled onto one of them and chained to the side, while Arenadd and Morwenna went to two others. They stared silently at each other, each one on the outside as cold and emotionless as they always had been, before the carts moved away.

Skandar's own cart went Westward, and he kept his eyes on his two friends until the last.

He never saw either of them again.

Skandar's journey eventually took him North, and he soon became used to life on the road. He spent his time sitting in the spot where they kept him chained, allowed to dismount every night and sleep underneath it on the thin blanket provided. His days were a dull haze of rumbling wheels and quiet despair, and his nights were full of bad dreams.

During that time the last of his sight returned, and he was able to watch his new companions with something like curiosity.

These were not elves, though they looked vaguely like them. They were shorter, broader – less delicate and far less graceful. Their ears were rounded. They had a rough look to them, as if they had been made from wood and stone. Their voices were loud and coarse, and they seemed full of energy – never able to sit still or think, but always on the move, always talking.

They were strange to him, and yet he did come to appreciate them in a way. They had a joy for life; a simple good cheer that elves did not have. But they would only live for a few short years – a mere fraction of a century. Skandar could not imagine living like that, with the prospect of death always so close.

_But I will have to, now,_ he thought. _The pale elves took my immortality. I will age and die as the humans do._

The knowledge failed to upset him. In fact, he welcomed it. All he wanted to do now was die, and soon.

Eventually the mine where they were headed came in sight, and Skandar watched its approach with dull eyes. He had only the vaguest idea of what awaited him there, but he did not care. Nor did the prospect of a life of hard labour without respite bother him. Whatever lay ahead would be his life from now on, and even if he escaped, where would he go?

_Today I go to the mines,_ he thought. _Beyond that, I will go to the stars and sleep forever in the moon's heavenly gardens. _

The thought comforted him a little, and he sat back on the rattling cart and wondered if he would find his mother waiting there for him.

Arthryn walked slowly through the night, not knowing where she was going, nor caring if she got there. It was dark; she travelled only at night, as dark elves did, knowing it would protect her. Tonight it was darker still. Even the moon seemed to mourn; keeping its bright face hidden as if it could not bear to look at the earth and the prophet struggling over it.

She could feel a deep ache in her chest, and knew it was from the hole where her family had been torn away.

Skraed. Skandar. She saw their faces in her mind, night and day, tormenting her. But they were gone, and her heart tore at itself, as if it wanted her to die along with it. Skraed dead, and Skandar… Skandar was as good as dead now. Arthryn had no illusions over how the pale elves would treat him. If they did not kill him, his despair would.

_I could have stopped it,_ she told herself, again and again, until the words became meaningless. _I could have stopped it, I could have stopped it. If I had only dreamed… if I had only foreseen it… I could have stopped it, I could…_

But her dreams had failed her, and she had failed her entire race. And soon enough she knew she would follow them into the abyss. The moon was a harsh mistress, and Arthryn had betrayed it by her failure.

And yet she kept on doggedly walking, night after night, not stopping to eat or to rest, hoping to go on until she found oblivion. 'Sweet darkness, take me,' she mumbled.

She had lost track of how long she had been travelling, but she knew the direction. North. Always North.

She did not know why. But when she faltered, or thought of taking another direction, something inside her nagged at her to stay on her path, following the pull of the North.

So she did, following the Spine and avoiding the wild dragons she encountered from time to time.

Over time the weather grew colder, as winter set in and she entered colder country. Like all dark elves she was resistant to cold, and she trudged on even when the first snow had begun to fall, until she had reached the place where the Spine curved Eastward. There she abandoned the mountains and left Alagaësia's inhabited lands behind her as she struck out over the endless plains beyond.

There was no shelter on the plain, and no food either. Arthryn couldn't see anything ahead – no hills or forests… no sign of another living creature. She knew she had entered dead lands – infertile, empty and cold.

She knew this was the place that had been calling her, and she walked on and let it take her into itself and make her its own. She walked until she could no longer see the mountains, and nothing but endless flatness stretched in every direction. Snow fell thick and heavy, hiding the barren soil and blinding her to the way ahead. Arthryn knew that walking through it was as good as suicide, and that was exactly why she did just that.

Her journey could not last forever, and it didn't. After a week of endless walking, during which time she ate nothing and barely slept, she silently collapsed into a snowdrift.

The snow continued to fall, covering the seer's dark form until it was completely invisible – just another mound in all the whiteness.

Arthryn felt the burning cold embrace her, and loved it. She lay utterly still, all her strength gone, and waited to die.

And the darkness came.

With it came the dream.

It was a dream unlike any she had ever had before – a seer's dream, bright and vivid in her dying mind, like a flame.

A man walked through her dream – a man she thought she recognised. Tall and lean, his features dark elvish, and yet… and yet… _not. _

She saw him crouched, clutching a knife in one hand. His other hand gripped his ear, holding it by the pointed tip… he was pale with fear as he lifted the knife and began to cut, and she saw him grimacing in pain. But he did not stop. He sawed furiously back and forth, ignoring the blood trickling down his arm, until a fleshy chunk of his ear tore away with a brutal wrench, and he screamed…

Now he walked on, the man with the mutilated ears. She saw him fly… saw a great dragon soaring beneath him, saw his outstretched hand, marked with a silver oval.

_Shur'tugal,_ she hissed. _TRAITOR! _

But the dragon changed. Changed beneath him. It screamed in agony as shadows enveloped it, crumbling its scales to dust. But where the shadows touched the man, they did not destroy him, and they made another dragon, a dark dragon with lightning crackling over its outstretched wings. The dragon's mouth opened wide, belching black fire that destroyed a white city and burned away a hundred monuments of power.

And the man walked on, always on, his silver-marked hand wielding a white sword red with blood. She saw him fighting, fighting for his life, fighting against a white-haired elf… an elf she had seen kill Graethen, and so many others.

_Kill him,_ she thought. _KILL HIM!_

And Vrael fell, impaled on the dark man's sword, and Arthryn screamed her hate and her triumph.

Then the killer, the dark man, turned toward her, and she saw the look of utter agony etched into his face. On his chest, showing through the dark elvish robe he wore, was a wet, gaping hole torn into his body – a hole where his heart should have been.

_Kill me,_ he whispered, reaching out with a blood-stained hand, pleading with her, begging to be allowed to die. But death did not come. A silver circle descended on him, like a cage, and he tried to run or to fend it off. But it closed around his forehead, squeezing tightly until it was a part of him. He tried desperately to pull it away, and fell to his knees, wrenching at it until blood ran down his face. But it would not let him be, and he opened his mouth and screamed a scream that echoed back toward Arthryn as if it would never end.

_Dark king, dark king, dark king, shadow king, half-breed king…_

The scream followed Arthryn through her mind, until she awoke.


	6. The Mines

Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

**The Mines**

When the cart came to a stop outside the mine and Skandar was unchained and dragged down off the back, he found a large human waiting to receive him. The human had a whip hanging from his belt, and his clothes were dirty and ragged.

'So _this_ is it, is it?' he snarled at the carters. 'This is the new one? This is the best we're gettin'?'

'Don't bother shoutin' at me, Beltrain,' one of the carters said flatly. 'All I did is bring him.'

The man stepped closer and jabbed Skandar hard in the chest. 'This,' he said. 'This ain't a slave I can use. This… is a little boy. I could snap this runt over me knee. How in the gods' names d'you expect him to last ten seconds down 'ere?'

'I'm sure y'kin find a use for him. What're y'whinin' about, anyway? You didn't pay for him.'

Beltrain snorted. 'Fine. Get goin', then, an' tell 'em thanks for nothin'.'

'Look,' said the carter. 'This ain't no ordinary child. See this?' he reached down and wrenched at one of Skandar's ears. 'Pointed. Notice that?'

The miner went pale. 'An _elf?_ What the-? Since when did they sell _themselves?'_

'They don't,' said the carter. 'This is a dark elf. Different kind. Not friends with the other kind.'

'Well, is he dangerous?' said Beltrain.

'They said he wasn't, but y'might wanna keep an eye on him anyway. Look, the order's this – you can do whatever you want with him. Give him whatever work y'see fit t'give him until he's dead. They made it pretty damn clear they don't want t'see him ever again, for any reason. They want him out of their sight forever, got that?'

'Yeah, I got it,' said Beltrain. 'I can find a use for him, sure enough.'

'Good.' The carter shoved Skandar toward him. 'Good luck.'

Skandar made a very brief attempt to escape, but Beltrain obviously knew how to handle people. He grabbed him by the hair and twisted his head sideways to force him to stand still, and then shoved him hard in the back, sending him sprawling into the dirt. Before Skandar could get up, the human had planted a boot between his shoulderblades, forcing his face into the ground.

'Now lissen up,' the man grated. 'This is your place now, understand? There's no point tryin' to run away; there's empty country every direction. No food, no water, nowhere to hide. Try it an' you'll be tracked down in less than a day, an' we've got special treatment for slaves who run away, an' it's the sort of treatment that leaves more'n scars. Do what you're told, an' keep yer mouth shut. Complainin', stealin', talkin' back, lazing off – those are things we don't know the meanin' of here. Do what yer told and y'get food and sleep. That's the rules.' That said, he reached down and hauled Skandar to his feet, forcibly turning him around to face him. 'You got all that, boy?'

Skandar coughed. 'I think I understand-,'

Beltrain hit him, hard, in the face. 'Don't you dare speak that heathen language in front of me, boy. Y'll speak real language, or I'll smash your teeth.'

Blood dripped from Skandar's nose, and he blinked dazedly. 'I won't,' he said, using the common tongue this time.

Another blow. 'That's "I won't, _master_",' Beltrain snapped.

Skandar stared at the ground. 'I won't, master.'

'Good. Now get movin'.'

As if in a dream, Skandar let himself be marched into a rough wooden hut set into the mountainside next to the mine's entrance. There Beltrain made him sit down and gave him a wooden mug of water while he busied himself lighting a brazier.

Skandar sipped at the water; it was warm and tasted of earth, but it was better than nothing, and he used some of it to try and clean the dirt off his face. This, at least, seemed to be allowed.

Beltrain had lit the coals in the brazier, and poured oil on them until they were burning brightly. In very little time they had turned a dull red, and the man picked up a strange long metal rod and thrust the tip into the middle of them. He left it there while he sat down and munched on a withered apple. Skandar hadn't eaten in hours, and he stared longingly at the apple, his stomach rumbling at the juicy crunching sounds it made.

Beltrain saw him looking, and spat a piece of the half-chewed flesh at him. 'Don't think y'll be gettin' more than that, boy. These things cost a pretty coin.'

He finished the apple in a few more bites, core and all, and stood up to fiddle with the rod in the brazier. Apparently satisfied, he pulled Skandar out of his seat and made him stand next to the burning coals.

'Stand still,' he advised, 'Or this'll hurt a damn sight more.'

Without waiting for a response, he took Skandar by the hair again and pulled his head sideways. His other hand took the long metal rod out of the brazier. The tip, glowing with heat, had a shape welded to the end.

Beltrain didn't wait to let Skandar realise what was happening. He pressed the glowing metal into the side of his neck, and held it there.

The pain was indescribeable.

Skandar struggled wildly, trying with all his might to get away, but the human's grip was iron. The red-hot metal stayed pressed firmly into his skin, and he felt as if it were going to burn straight through his neck and emerge on the other side.

A smell filled his nostrils – a smell so foul it made him gag.

He realised it was burning flesh. That was when he screamed.

Beltrain took the brand away and tossed it carelessly onto the floor before letting go of Skandar's hair. 'Stop squealin',' he advised. 'It's just a burn; it'll heal if y'keep it clean.'

Skandar didn't hear him. He collapsed onto his seat, sobbing softly and trembling in shock.

'You're marked now,' Beltrain went on, ignoring him. 'If y'ever get away from here, anyone who sees the scar'll know where y'came from an' where t'take y'back. Here.'

A wet cloth was pressed into Skandar's hand. He dabbed at the burn as gently as he could, which made the screaming pain rise up so sharply it made his eyes water.

'Water helps,' said Beltrain. 'Clay, too, if y'can find it. Now let's get goin'. I've got work t'do, an' so have you.'

An instant later Skandar found himself being hauled out of the hut and back into painful sunshine. Beltrain took him toward the mine's entrance – an artificial cave, lined with rough wooden supports. Oil lamps burned in holders on the walls, but it was terribly dark.

The tunnel narrowed sharply beyond the entrance, and then sloped downward. A rope had been attached to the wall to stop those who used it from falling, and Skandar held onto it tightly. He hated heights. Trees were different, but this…

The tunnel seemed to go forever. Often it was completely dark, but Beltrain had brought a torch, and he led the way with the confidence of someone who had done it hundreds of times before.

Skandar quickly lost track of time, and how far he had gone. He felt as if he had gone into another world, where time and space meant nothing, and everything was dark and still. The idea that there could possibly be another living creature down here felt ridiculous.

And yet there were people down here.

The tunnel branched several times, and finally led toward a place where there was light. Beltrain, pulling Skandar along beside him, strode on a little faster and met another human, who popped up as if he had sprouted out of the wall.

'There y'are. Thought y'weren't comin' back. Is _that_ the new one?'

'Yeah,' said Beltrain. 'I know; I ain't happy either, but he'll have t'do. Got him branded and briefed. Any ideas how we could use him?'

The other man rubbed his chin. 'Well, he's skinny enough t'go into one of the exploratory tunnels. Doubt he'll be strong enough, though.'

'They don't seem t'care,' said Beltrain. 'Seemed pretty happy just t'have him down here out of the way.'

'Well, we'll start him off with somethin' light,' said the other man. 'Just 'till he's built up his strength a bit. You-,' this was to Skandar. 'Yeah, you, I don't care what yer name is. Get movin'.'

Skandar walked obediently ahead of him and into the lighted area. There were plenty of lanterns here, casting shadows over the craggy dirt walls. There were also people.

Skandar stared blankly at them. All human, all of them men. They wore the simplest rags, most of them so ingrained with dirt that they were all the same colour. Most of them wore chains, stretched between their ankles, forcing them to move at a slow shuffle.

They were hard at work, using pickaxes to carve at the walls. Some were gathering the black lumps their comrades had dislodged and putting them into small wooden handcarts. There was a strange, uniform manner to the way they worked – they moved slowly and monotonously, neither hurrying nor dragging, like men who didn't particularly care about what they were doing or when it would end. Skandar saw the knotted, stringy muscles on their arms and legs, and the ribs protruding through their sides.

The overseer who had brought him in shoved him toward the nearest partly-loaded cart. 'Here,' he said. 'This is your job for now. Gather the coal, dump it in here. Simple enough. I'll be keepin' an eye on yer.'

Skandar had long since realised that there was no point in trying to argue. 'Yes, master.'

And that was how his first day of work began.

That was how his new life began, too.

When Arthryn awoke, it was as if the dream had given her an inner strength that starvation and despair could not defeat. Moving like one driven by a will stronger than her own, she dragged herself out of the snowdrift and emerged into bright sunshine. She ate several handfuls of snow to cool her thirst, and limped on toward the horizon, her mouth set in a thin, hard line. She knew where she was going now.

By evening, a shape had formed on the landscape ahead of her – a dark, hunched thing, spiked at the top like teeth. Arthryn knew it was a forest, and she smiled to herself, knowing her journey was nearly done.

She reached the trees and went in among them, and the familiar scent of pine-needles soothed her. As she went further on, she found a silver stream with fish swimming in it, and a herd of deer. There were wolves here, too, and wild sheep, and edible herbs. It was a place full of shadows, this forest, and to Arthryn it felt like a place she had visited once, long ago, and almost forgotten.

She used the last of her waning magic to light a black fire, and gathered some mushrooms and nuts, which she ate ravenously. Later on, when she had rested, she would hunt a deer or maybe net some fish from the stream.

The food tasted good. She forced herself to eat it slowly, savouring the taste while the fire brought warmth back into her body.

This place was deserted. No humans, no elves. No enemies, and no friends either. But Arthryn knew it wouldn't be deserted forever. Others had survived the destruction, and they too would feel the pull of the North. One day they would find her.

For now, Arthryn was content to wait.

She reached into her robe and brought out Graethen's crown, running her long fingers over the silver.

'I will wait,' she said aloud. 'No matter how long it takes, how many days and months and years. I will wait.'

One day he would come to find her, one day. The King destined to wear this crown would find her, and she would tell him of her dream, and so many other things the dark elves knew. He would not forget.

_And one day, he will kill Vrael,_ she thought, remembering that part of the dream and savouring it as she had savoured the food. _The pale elf may gloat now, but one day he will meet his doom at the point of the half-breed's sword. Count your days, Vrael – for they are numbered. _

She smiled to herself again, at the thought. The half-breed would come, and Vrael would pay. One day.

Hundreds of miles away from where his mother brooded, Skandar toiled in the darkness.

Darkness was his world, now – inside and out.

The other slaves were quick to notice him – the strange, dark child who moved and spoke as if he were far, far older. Some asked him questions, most were curious, others afraid. Skandar said nothing to any of them. He said nothing to the guards, either – only silently doing as he was told. The only time he spoke was at night, when he mumbled in some strange language in his sleep.

As for Skandar himself… he didn't care. Didn't care about where he was, didn't care about what happened to him, and didn't care where he was going. This was his life now, a half-life, a nothing life. He expected nothing, and got it. The slaves rarely went above ground, and the only time when he seemed to come alive was in those few moments when he could see the sky at night, and the stars there. That was when the other slaves saw his eyes light up, just a little, and once or twice he showed a glimmer of a smile.

Time passed; empty time, taken up by endless toil and pain, and the coarse voices of the slaves and the guards. Skandar crawled through narrow tunnels to explore seams of coal, fetched and carried, loaded the carts and sometimes took up a pickaxe with the others.

And yet, while he worked as a slave and lived their life, there _was_ something different about him that went beyond his appearance – something the humans around him were quick enough to notice. For one thing, he was strong – unnaturally so – a strength that went against his thin build, and which only increased as he grew older and his arms thickened with muscle. He never seemed to need much sleep, either, and didn't seem to suffer as much as the others did on the poor food they were given. He was faster than they were, too, and more graceful. Elvish traits, they were, all of them – traits he had not lost along with his magic after all.

There was a third trait he had not lost, but he wasn't aware of it – at least, not then.

And that was his life, such as it was; a life in the mines that dragged on for decades.

By the end of that time, things had changed. Coal was becoming harder and harder to find, and some of the slaves began to disappear – sold off by the mine's owner, now that fewer labourers were needed. Eventually, the mindless toil Skandar had become used to was replaced by something he had completely forgotten about: boredom.

The slaves sat in the slave-house for days on end, waiting with nothing to do while the overseers argued and consulted charts and searched the tunnels for new places to dig. Skandar kept expecting them to return and say they had found something and that it was time to go back to work, but they never did.

He sat on his accustomed bench with his rough hands hanging between his knees, staring blankly at the floor. Some of the other slaves were talking, but he paid no attention.

'Of course,' one of them said abruptly, '_You _ain't got nothin' to worry 'bout.'

It took Skandar a few moments to realise the remark had been directed at him. He lifted his head and stared at the man who had said it.

The other slave flinched slightly. 'Look at yer,' he mumbled. 'How long's he bin in the mine, anyway?'

'Forty-five years or thereabouts, I reckon,' said an old slave. 'Been here nearly as long as I 'ave.'

'By the peaks,' said the first slave. 'Wouldn't think it t'look at him, wouldyer? Eh?'

Skandar blinked silently.

'I was sayin',' the other slave went on, 'It'll be easy for yer. Y'ain't so worn down as the rest of us; stronger an' that. An' younger… well, y'_look_ younger, anyway. How old are yer, anyway, fifty?'

'Fifty-six,' Skandar said in flat tones.

Several of the slaves exclaimed in astonishment.

'No way yer fifty-six!' said the one who'd asked. 'Y'look younger'n thirty!'

Skandar's expression did not flicker, but inwardly he felt a strange, almost painful triumph. _Oromis, you fool. You didn't take my immortality at all, did you? Forty-five years and I have kept my youth._

He made a strange sound that could have been a laugh, but which wanted to turn into a scream of hatred. Still young, still vital, and he would spend it all as a slave. He would live like this for hundreds of years, still strong enough to mine and quarry and build houses. The kind of slave any master would want.

The other slaves had become uncomfortable and looked away.

'This mine's finished,' the talkative one resumed, more loudly than he needed to. 'I know that certain, like.'

'Yer right,' said the old one. 'I've known mines longer'n you've bin alive, sonny. This one's empty. They've gotten all the coal out of it they ever will.'

'Well what'll they do with us?' someone else asked.

'Sell us off, of course,' said the old man. 'Slaves ain't no use t'nobody unless they're workin'.'

'Sell us t'who?' said a young slave.

'Dunno. Anywhere wants us. My bet'd be one of the slave markets in the cities. Then, who knows?'

Deep inside, Skandar felt a small stirring of interest. If the mine was finished, where would they send him? Where would he go – another mine? A building project, maybe? He knew the kinds of work slaves did by now.

_Maybe they'll send me somewhere where I can see the stars at night,_ he thought. That made him feel happier than he had been in a long time.

They did not go to work that day, or the next, or the day after that. The slaves passed the time by talking or darning holes in their clothes. Skandar had never been provided with new clothes after he had grown out of his old robe, but he had turned its remains into a kind of crude kilt, which in the stifling warmth of the mines was enough.

Finally, after their fourth day spent idle, the overseers came to order them out of the slave-house. But they did not direct them into the mine as usual. Several large carts, resembling wheeled cages, were waiting outside, and the slaves were ordered to climb into them.

Skandar was one of the last to go, and he sat down on the floor inside, his heart pounding. He felt more excited than he had done in years, and as the cart moved away from the mine that had been his home for so long, he suddenly felt bold – so bold that he did something he had not done since he was a child, and free.

He edged toward the front of the cage – toward where the driver sat, and gripped the bars.

'Sir,' he said. 'Where are we going?'

The driver glanced back at him, and then looked back at the road. 'This cart's goin' to Teirm,' he said.


	7. Inge

Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

**Ingë **

Sitting comfortably in her favourite seat by the fire, Ingë Taranisäii frowned as she examined the latest result of her labours. She ran her fingers over the lines and then turned the parchment this way and that to look at it from different angles.

The sketch was a little rough, but she liked the shape. Perhaps the blade should be a little narrower… should the grip be longer? The ornamentation looked uneven on one side, too.

She scowled and crumpled the picture up before tossing it into the fire and reaching for a fresh sheet and picking up her pen. Leaning over the table was too uncomfortable, so she'd improvised with a piece of flat wood she could rest on her knees. One of her cleverer ideas, she thought.

The pen skated over the paper, scratching out another picture. Ingë's forehead wrinkled in concentration… _the blade tapering away from the hilt… a line down the centre to indicate the blood-channel – the crossguard had to be perfectly straight, for balance – the pommel a teardrop shape… perhaps there should be a jewel of some kind set into it?_

No! No, not a jewel.

The pen halted its journey as she let the idea form.

'Oh _yes,'_ she said aloud.

The pen raced around the paper, drawing another sword. Yes, yes, that was it… all that nonsense about jewels and gold, as if _that_ mattered!

When she was finished, she put the pen back into the inkpot and sat back to admire the results.

_Oh yes. _

She had drawn dozens of swords just this evening, and dozens more the previous day and the day before that. But none of them had been as good as this one. Yes, _this_ was it. Nothing like those silly glittery things she had been trying to imagine. Glitter was all very well, but they were nothing but pathetic imitations, trying to be like the weapons she had read about in books and heard about in tales.

'Fine for people in _stories,'_ she said aloud. 'But this is _real.'_

She smiled to herself, triumphant.

The sword was a deceptively simple thing, with clean lines and a long, straight blade. The crosspiece was designed to look like a pair of dragons lying on their stomachs, tail to tail, and the pommel was in the shape of an egg.

Oh yes, the egg.

She put the picture down and wandered over to her dressing-table, where the egg sat on the little gold stand that had been made for it. It was jet-black and beautifully smooth, and she took it down and held it, cradling it as if it were a baby.

'_You'll_ be on my sword,' she told it. 'Don't you like that?'

She had often talked to the egg; she knew it was silly, but she didn't care. She liked to pretend it was real, and at night when she was lonely she would imagine that it hatched into a dragon. Oh, to have a dragon of her own!

Ingë sighed and put the egg back. She knew _that_ was impossible, but at least she would have her sword, and by the time her parents knew about it they'd be too late to stop her.

She grinned wickedly to herself, imagining the looks on their faces when they found out.

A knock on the door jerked her back to reality. She darted across the room and stuffed her precious drawing under her mattress before going to open it.

'Dinner, my Lady,' said the servant on the other side.

Ingë sighed. 'I'm coming.'

Her mother was already seated by the time she arrived, looking rather bored. 'There you are.'

Ingë sat down and smoothed her skirts. 'Mother.'

The two women sat in silence while the servants laid out the evening meal. Ingë took a cup of wine and sipped it, ignoring her mother's looks toward her.

'So,' she said brightly, once the servants had gone. 'I suppose Father has finished arranging for your journey?'

Her mother nodded. 'We shall be leaving tomorrow morning, as planned.'

Ingë hid a smile. 'And how long do you think you'll be gone?'

'It's a long way, even by coach,' said her mother. 'And once we arrive your father will want to see to other matters as well. I would expect us to be gone at least two months.'

'That's a long time,' said Ingë, still trying not to smirk. 'However will I cope on my own?'

'I'm sure the servants will be able to look after you,' said her mother.

'Of course,' said Ingë.

'Don't take this lightly,' her mother warned. 'This is serious, Ingë. While I'm gone, you'll be expected to manage the household. And two months will be a long time.'

Ingë rolled her eyes. 'I'm nineteen, Mother. I'm sure I'll be able to deal with it.'

Lady Taranisäii managed a smile. 'Of course you will. But we both know how flighty you are – I only want to be certain you'll stay focused instead of thinking you can do whatever you like.'

'I know, I know.'

Ingë pretended to listen to the rest of her mother's dire warnings while they ate, and left at the first possible opportunity. Back in the privacy of her room, she took out the drawing and examined again with pride. She'd manage the household while her parents were gone, of _course_ she would. But that would hardly take up all her time. And with them out of the way, well…

With _them_ out of the way, there was no end to the things she could do.

Lord and Lady Taranisäii left the next morning, as promised, and Ingë saw them off.

Her father, naturally, had plenty of last-minute warnings.

'You'll have access to the treasury, but don't think that means you can spend all you want! And if you decide to go out into the city, dress respectably and _take a bodyguard._ You know what happens to ladies of quality who go out in public on their own, and I don't want to have to remind you. You can have guests to dinner if you choose, but be certain to plan it properly with the housekeeper. Is all that understood?'

Ingë smiled and hugged him. 'Perfectly well, Father. You don't need to worry; I've been planning for this ever since I found out you were leaving.'

He hugged her back and kissed her on the cheek. 'I trust you.'

Ingë embraced her mother next. 'Tell my betrothed I think about him every day,' she said.

'I will. And I'm sure he thinks of you too.'

'I'm sure he does,' Lord Taranisäii echoed.

Ingë watched their carrige pull away, and sighed to herself. Despite her assurances she _was_ a little nervous.

She wondered what her betrothed would think when he found out about the things she had got up to in their absence.

Well. She shook herself. Now wasn't the time for moping. She was young, unmarried and rich, and for the first time in her life she could do whatever she pleased, without having to sneak past anyone!

Feeling much more cheerful, she went back into the house and returned to her room to change her clothes. Ignoring what her father had said, she selected a plain gown and a simple pendant and matching earrings. She fully intended to go into the city today, but she was damned if she was going to have to drag nineteen-odd silk petticoats with her.

The day was chilly, so she put a cloak on over the top, and put the sketch and a little bag of money in the hidden pocket inside it before leaving the room.

'Sandor; I will go into the city today.'

The tough guardsman stood to attention. 'Yes, my Lady.'

With him in tow, Ingë left the house with her head held high. This would be her first day of freedom, and she knew it would be the best day of her life.

It was a bright, clear day in late autumn, and Ingë strolled through the streets in the market district, taking everything in. She had been here before, of course, but always in her mother's company, and she had been forbidden to talk to or even look at most of the people she saw, who had stared as she went past in her fine gowns and jewels, every inch the Teirmish lady of quality. That had been fun, in a way, but _dull._

Now, more or less ignoring Sandor altogether and letting him keep up on his own, she did whatever she wanted.

She examined the wares laid out by various traders, sometimes asking questions, completely ignoring all the people looking curiously at her. In her plain clothes she looked more or less like an ordinary person, but many of those around her already knew her by sight, and more than one looked as if they dearly wanted to ask what she was doing.

Ingë loved it.

She could have spent hours exploring the stalls, but the sketch hidden in her cloak kept nagging at her, and she stopped picking through a selection of leather pouches on a stall and addressed the boy on the other side.

'Excuse me.'

The boy looked at her, wide-eyed. 'Yes, my Lady?'

Ingë smiled at him; he looked so terrified, with his sandy hair hanging in his eyes. 'Don't worry; I won't bite,' she advised. 'Is your father around?'

'He's just gone away, my Lady,' the boy stammered. 'But I can help if there's anything you need, my Lady.'

Ingë chuckled and bought one of the pouches. 'Now then,' she said when she had handed over the money. 'I was wondering if you could tell me if there's anyone in the city who makes swords.'

'Swords?' the boy gaped at her. 'W-well… uh… there's a place… down at the West End, not so far from the docks… there's a man down there makes swords for the city guard, my Lady.'

Ingë's smile widened. 'Perfect! The West End, you say?'

'Yes, my Lady. It's next to a shipyard and past the slave market, my Lady.'

'Excellent. Thankyou…?'

'Cardock, my Lady,' the boy mumbled. 'I'm Cardock.'

She ruffled his hair. 'Thankyou, Cardock. Here. Have this for your trouble.' She dropped an extra coin in front of him, and went on her way.

Sandor caught up with her as she left the market district and went Westward, toward the docks. 'My Lady…'

Ingë stopped impatiently. 'Yes? What?'

He coughed. 'My Lady, I don't think you should go down that way.'

'Oh, why not?'

'The West End is… well, some unsavoury types live there, my Lady. If you was to go down there alone…'

'Well I'm not alone,' said Ingë. 'I have you with me. Now, let's go. I have something very important to do, and I want to do it today.'

Sandow knew better than to argue. 'Yes, my Lady.'

He didn't complain any further, but she noticed that he stayed very close to her as they drew nearer to the docks.

As they wended their way toward the shipyards, Ingë realised they were going to have to pass through one of the most unpleasant parts of the city. It hadn't occurred to her that they might have to do this, and she felt her stomach twist. For a moment she even considered turning back, but the thought of the sword, burning brightly in her mind, made her keep on going. And besides…

Despite herself, she couldn't help but feel a kind of dark thrill at the thought of passing through the slave district. Her mother would have thrown a fit if she had known, and that was another reason to tempt her on.

Deep down, Ingë had always been fascinated by darkness. She liked the unknown, and the dangerous. She liked the forbidden. It was so much more exciting than ordinary life.

_And besides,_ she told herself, _you'll be married soon enough. After that you'll never have the chance to do something like this. _This _is your time to live, my girl! Do something you can tell your children about one day. Do something more than going to dances and being charming to people you don't give a whit about._

Spurred on, she squared her shoulders and went straight into the slave district.

It was smelly there – that was the first thing she noticed. And though the street she was on wasn't covered, it felt darker than it should have… or perhaps she was imagining it.

The people around her seemed like a much less friendly lot than in the marketplace, too.

Some of them glanced at her; most looked away. Nearly all of them were armed.

Suddenly nervous, Ingë kept very close to Sandor and avoided making eye-contact with anyone.

She couldn't make herself look away from the slaves.

They stood in little groups beside the men selling them, chained to posts by the wrists. Most of them were men, all were thin, and all of them had a blank look to them, as if their minds had left their bodies to suffer and gone… somewhere else.

Ingë tried not to feel sorry for them – she knew they were all criminals, sold into slavery where they would be more useful than in prison. Rapists, thieves, swindlers, pagans and perverts, every one.

Ingë shook her head miserably, suddenly feeling as if just looking at them had made her unclean and cruel.

_Oh gods, to live like that…_

Her excitement had utterly vanished. All she wanted to do now was leave, and as quickly as possible.

She hurried on, keeping her head down, but looked up to the sound of a commotion.

A crowd had gathered up ahead; she could see people at the back craning to see something, and instantly wondered what was so interesting.

Impulsively, she pushed her way into their midst with Sandor's help, and found a couple of men arguing. She couldn't help but feel disappointed.

Annoyed, and a little frightened, she turned to leave, but there were people in the way and she turned back to look for another way out.

And as she turned, she saw him.

The two arguing men were standing in the middle of what had been a slaver's stand, but the posts that had held slaves were all empty now. All except for the one closest to them.

A man was standing chained to it – Ingë had only spotted him because he was so tall. He was bare-chested and had thick, matted black hair, and stood with his head bowed, staring at his big rough hands, which hung limply in front of him with the chains weighing them down.

Seeing him, Ingë suddenly and inexplicably felt frightened. She glanced at the arguing men, and then turned to the nearest person. 'What are they shouting about?'

The stranger, a middle-aged woman, grinned. 'Them two idiots were tryin' t'sell off their last slave, but no-one wants him an' now they don't know what to do.'

Ingë looked at the slave again. 'What _can_ they do with a slave nobody wants?'

'Kill 'em, usually,' the woman said casually. 'Think that's what most of the people here're hopin' for.'

Ingë stared her, horrified. '_What?_ They're going to _kill_ him? Here in front of everyone?'

The woman glanced at the slavers. 'Looks like.'

Ingë followed her gaze, and saw that they had stopped arguing.

'Well fine!' one of them snapped. 'Do it then.'

His companion growled and drew a long knife. 'Fine. Stand back.'

The crowd moved forward eagerly as he walked over to the slave and grabbed him by the hair. The slave made no effort to break free, but stood there passively and stared at the knife.

'_Stop! STOP!'_

The slaver lowered the knife and looked around irritably.

Not knowing what she was doing, Ingë pushed toward him. 'Stop!' she said again. 'What are you doing? You can't _kill_ him!'

The slaver spat. 'He's my property, lady. Useless property.'

'If you can't sell him, then just set him free,' said Ingë. 'Then he won't be your property any more.'

Several people nearby laughed.

The slaver wasn't one of them. 'Listen, lady – what I do with my property is my business, so unless _you_ want him…'

Ingë hesitated, and in that instant the slave's eyes turned toward her. They were black, and apparently as empty as their colour, but they sent a strange shock down Ingë's spine.

'How much d'you want for him?' she asked.

The slaver paused, considered, and then let go of the slave's hair and put his knife back into his belt. 'How much can yer pay?'

'Enough,' she said shortly. 'I believe you said he was worthless, so I'll take him for nothing.'

The slaver grinned a gap-toothed grin at that. 'A hundred gold an' he's yours, lady.'

'Done,' said Ingë, without even stopping to think.

'It's a deal, then,' said the slaver. 'You got the money on yer?'

'Of course not,' said Ingë, in her haughtiest voice. 'What sort of lady would carry that much money around with her? Bring him to my house, and I'll pay you there.'

'How do I know this ain't a trick?' said the slaver.

'A trick!' Ingë exclaimed. She drew herself up. 'I am Ingë Taranisäii of the Ancient House of Taranis, and I don't need to trick anybody.' She reached into her cloak and brought out her money pouch. 'There is about thirty gold in here. Bring him to the House of Taranis this evening, and I'll give you the rest.'

The slaver caught the bag and stuffed it in his pocket. 'All right then, my Lady – you've got yerself a slave.'

Ingë smoothed down her hair, aware of all the eyes on her. 'Very well then,' she said, and left with as much dignity as she could – forcing herself not to look at the slave again as she did.

She exited the slave district as quickly and discreetly as she could, all thought of the precious sword forgotten.

Her heart was pounding as she returned home.

_Oh gods, what have I done?_

Back in her room, she splashed water on her face and tried to breathe deeply.

'All right,' she said aloud. 'There's no need to panic. Don't panic. Think.'

She had bought a slave. Well of _course_ she had bought him. What was she supposed to have done – walk away and let them kill him?

No. She knew she would never have forgiven herself if she'd done that.

She felt her heart begin to steady its beating. This was nothing to panic about. What she had to do was very simple. When the slave arrived, she would give him some food and clean clothes to wear, and then set him free to go wherever he liked. He wouldn't attack her; not when she had saved his life and given him back his freedom.

She felt warm inside at the thought of what she had done and was going to do. This wasn't something to feel guilty or ashamed about, not at all.

Suddenly energised, she dried her face and hurried out of the room to begin making arrangements.


	8. Meeting

Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight**

**Meeting**

Skandar had spent days in the slave district, standing patiently by his post and waiting to be sold. He watched his fellow slaves go, in dribs and drabs – a good number of them were sold to the same buyer in one go, while others went in twos and threes and very rarely in ones. Few people were interested in buying a single slave.

Toward the end, when there were only a handful of slaves left, he began to see that he was not going to be sold.

Some of the buyers had taken an interest in him, certainly – some had gone so far as to feel his arms and chest, testing the muscles. But they turned away when they saw how tall and thin he was, and when they noticed his pointed ears they left very quickly – almost as if they were afraid. The slavers had angrily forced him to kneel and done their best to hide his ears under his hair, but it made very little difference – Skandar was not human, and he looked it, and nobody wanted to buy this strange-looking slave.

He had listened to the slavers arguing over his fate, knowing they had the power to do whatever they wanted with him, but not daring to look up lest he frighten away another customer, or merely annoy the slavers by looking at them.

Finally, he had heard the words he dreaded.

'We can't take him back with us; he's useless on his own. Just kill the bastard and be done with it.'

Skandar shuddered inside. _Oh moon. _

He let them pull his head back by the hair, and watched the knife coming for his throat. All his senses were hightened, his blood hot and his heart pounding – his entire body screaming out for survival. Darting desperately this way and that, his eyes searched the crowd and found… her.

Skandar heard her shout, and saw her come toward him, pale but angry. As if in a dream, he listened to her argue with the slaver, and suddenly felt himself released.

Safe, he watched his rescuer in wonder while she bartered with the slaver for his life.

He had never been this close to a human woman before.

She was tall for a human, and gracefully built. Her hair was rich reddish-brown, and hung in a curly mane over her shoulders. She had a round, delicate face, dusted with freckles across the nose, and her eyes were green as grass.

And then, as suddenly as she had come, she was gone. Skandar watched her vanish back into the crowd, feeling strangely bereft. What had she even said? He had only heard half of it, and now he couldn't remember what that half had been. But she had persuaded them not to kill him, hadn't she…?

The slaver's voice brought him back to the present. 'Thank yer lucky stars, elf; looks like we've found someone stupid enough to want yer. Come on; let's get movin'.'

Skandar allowed himself to be unchained, and followed the slavers in a daze. They took him back to the cart that had brought him to Teirm, where they let him sit down and gave him water and something to eat.

He chewed slowly, thinking about the girl. Shadows save him, was _she_ his master now?

Skandar turned the idea over in his mind. To be owned by _her_ instead of the mine overseers, to have that odd, curly-haired creature telling him what to do… whatever that was.

Very slowly, Skandar did something he had not done in many long years. He laughed.

Evening came, and the cart moved off again with its solitary occupant. Skandar watched the streets and the houses pass with a new interest, trying to guess where they were going and which house they would stop in front of.

The further they went, the larger and finer the houses became. Finally, they pulled up in front of the largest one of all – situated on top of the hill overlooking the city, built with elegant pillars and archways that all boasted of wealth and opulence.

The slaver who had driven the cart dismounted and ordered Skandar to get out, which he did willingly.

'That way,' the slaver ordered.

Skandar stepped through the gate and walked up the path toward the house, filled with wonder. He had never imagined that humans could build anything this grand.

More humans were waiting at the doorway, but these were plainly dressed, and pointedly avoided looking Skandar in the face. One of them bade the slaver wait, while another hurried into the house.

A moment later the door opened again, and _she _was there.

Skandar's eyes lit up, and he looked expectantly at her. For her part, she seemed nervous and awkward all of a sudden, and did not look back at him for long.

'Here,' she said, addressing the slaver now and holding out a bag. 'You can count it if you want, but I promise you it's all there.'

The slaver took it and grinned at her. 'Pleased t'be of service, my Lady. Here.' He passed the end of Skandar's chains to her.

She took them and held them uncomfortably. 'Thankyou.'

'Good luck to yer, then, elf,' said the slaver. 'An' don't think y'll be workin' any less hard now yer out of the mines.'

With that parting shot, he walked away back to his cart, and Skandar never saw him again.

Once he had gone, the girl looked a little more relaxed. She let go of the chain. 'Come on, come inside,' she told him.

Skandar obediently gathered up his chains and followed her into the house. As he passed through the doorway, he noticed an odd design carved over it – three spirals, linked together. His heart gave a little jump at the sight of it.

The house was just as grand inside as it was on the outside.

The girl nodded to one of her servants. 'Take those chains off him, will you?'

Skandar stood still, dumbstruck, as the servant obeyed and the manacles fell away. He rubbed his tender wrists, unable to quite take in the sensation of standing without chains.

'Come,' the girl said again. 'Follow me. I've had a bath prepared for you.'

Skandar blinked. 'Yes… master.'

She laughed. 'You can call me Ingë.'

'Yes… Ingë?' he ventured.

'That's better. Now, let's get you cleaned up.'

Skandar followed her upstairs, not knowing what to do other than what she told him to. She took him to a large, warm room, where a tub of hot water was waiting, along with soap and towels and a bottle of some strange potion she said was for his hair.

'I'll let the servants help you,' she said, and left.

It was the strangest day of Skandar's life. The servants helped him to undress, and one of them scrubbed his back for him while he sat in the bath – at first a little frightened to be submerged in hot water, but quickly able to luxuriate in it. He picked up the soap and quickly figured out how to use it, and after that he tried the potion on his hair, and thrilled at the way it softened his hair, untangling the knots and making it smooth and glossy, with a little help from a comb and a pair of scissors to cut away the worst of the matting. Finally, they gave him a razor, but they had to show him how to use it – after all, he had never shaved before in his life.

Once he had bathed, the servants gave him warm towels to dry himself and a set of clean clothes.

After he had put them on, one of the servants informed him that the Lady Ingë was waiting for him, and that he should go to her, which he instantly agreed to do, though he was tired. It would never do to upset his new master in any way; not when she had done so much for him.

Ingë was sitting at a table in another room, and Skandar's eyes widened when he saw the food laid out in front of her. Meat, fruit, vegetables and fresh bread… so many different foods, looking and smelling so delicious they could have stepped out of one of his grandest dreams.

Skandar's stomach growled, and he forced himself to look away.

Ingë smiled brightly at him. 'Sit with me, please,' she said, indicating a chair.

Skandar took it instantly, and stared at her, not quite sure what was expected of him.

Ingë dismissed the servants with a wave of her hand and then said, 'Eat something; don't wait for me. You must be hungry.'

Skandar gulped. 'Eat…?'

She laughed again. 'Well yes, isn't that what you do with food?'

'But…' Skandar winced automatically, expecting to be hit for using that particular word.

'But what?' said Ingë.

No-one had hit him. He dared to look up. 'All this…?'

'Of course,' said Ingë. 'I thought you'd be starving after standing out there next to that post all day.'

Skandar opened his mouth to protest, but he stopped himself. _Don't argue_.

He helped himself to the smallest slice of bread within reach, and ate it as politely as he could.

Ingë, apparently satisfied, took some food too and began to eat. 'Try some of the wine, why don't you?' she advised. 'It's very good.'

Skandar accepted the cup and sniffed it uncertainly.

'Drink some,' said Ingë. 'Not too much, though-,'

Skandar had already taken a good mouthful of the stuff. The taste was so sharp and unexpected that he nearly spat it out again, but he managed to make himself swallow it before he started coughing.

Ingë laughed heartily. 'Gosh, I'm sorry! I didn't realise you wouldn't have had wine before!'

Skandar wiped his mouth on his arm and forced himself not to stare at her in horror.

'Don't worry; it's not poisonous,' said Ingë. 'Look – I'll drink some too.'

She did, and after a few nervous starts Skandar tried some more. It went down a little more easily this time.

'Now then,' said Ingë. '…oh – my gods, I'm so rude! I haven't asked your name!'

'_Name?'_ Skandar repeated, unable to stop himself.

'Yes, I assume you have one,' said Ingë. 'Don't you?'

'I'm… sorry,' Skandar said in faltering tones. 'It's just that… nobody has asked me my name in… I don't remember the last time anybody asked.'

Ingë went quiet. Her eyes had gone bright. 'Well,' she said huskily. 'Can you tell me?'

'I am… I am Skandar Traeganni,' said Skandar, and the instant he said it, joy filled his chest. Oh, moon, to say his name! To remind himself who he was at last – not someone's property, not a _thing_ to be sold, but a man. Himself. _Skandar Traeganni_.

'Pleased to meet you, Skandar,' said Ingë. 'I already told you my name. Ingë Taranisäii.'

Skandar nodded. 'Ingë Taranisäii of the Ancient House of Taranis.'

She was looking at him in a strange, quiet way. 'You're an elf,' she said.

'Yes, mas… Ingë.'

'I didn't know they sold elves as slaves,' said Ingë.

All of a sudden, Skandar felt sick. 'They sold me.'

She moved closer, watching him intensely. '_Why?'_

Why…?

Skandar examined the question, and the more he did the more impossible it seemed to answer. _I am a prince. I am the last of my kind. The riders murdered my family and took my magic._

He said nothing.

Ingë looked away. 'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked; it's none of my business. Eat some more – we shouldn't let this go to waste.'

Skandar obeyed; too tired now to hesitate. The food was rich and utterly delicious, and he had to force himself not to gobble it down. His stomach refused to take too much of it anyway.

For her part, Ingë picked at a bunch of grapes, her eyes always on him. 'Listen,' she said, when Skandar had finished eating and the silence had become uncomfortable. 'I wanted to… you should know, I'm not planning to keep you here.'

Skandar looked up sharply, feeling as shocked as if she had just hit him. _No, _he thought. _No! You can't sell me again… not again…_

Ingë didn't seem to see the pleading in his eyes. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'But we don't keep slaves here, and we don't need one either. I only bought you to stop them from killing you.'

Skandar stared at his plate. Of course, he thought bitterly. Of course it was too good to last. This place where he could have been happy – where he wouldn't have to wear chains, where there was good food, and this girl who seemed to care about him – this wouldn't be his home. Of course.

'You can stay here as long as you like,' Ingë went on. 'And I'll make sure you get plenty of food, and good clothes to wear, and a warm place to sleep.'

Skandar felt a glimmer of hope.

'When you're ready, you can leave,' said Ingë. 'And I'll give you money and clothes to take with you.'

He looked up. 'Where… where would I go?'

She blinked. 'Go? Wherever you want to, Skandar. I'm setting you free.'

_Free._

The word felt meaningless to him. 'Free?'

'Yes. You can go back to your home.'

_Home._

Anger came to Skandar then – a sudden, hot, irrational anger. 'I have no home,' he said softly. 'I have no home.'

Ingë said nothing. She looked taken aback.

Skandar didn't look at her. 'I have no home,' he repeated. 'I have been a slave since I was a child. My family is gone. I have no home.'

Silence; deep, painful silence.

Ingë reached out and touched Skandar's hand. He looked at it as if he had no idea what it was, or what the touch meant.

Ingë, seeing it, knew nobody had touched him in sympathy or kindness in a very long time. 'Well then,' she said quietly, fighting back tears, 'Well then… I suppose you can just stay here, then.'

Skandar slept in a real bed that night, for the first time in his life. Or at least he was provided with one. Actually sleeping in it was another matter.

He lay awake for hours, kept awake not just by the unfamiliar soft mattress beneath him, or by the dull pain in his stomach, but by the turmoil in his mind.

_I'm free,_ he thought. _Free. _

But he did not feel free.

Instead, he tried to imagine where he would go. Back to the Spine? Back to his old home?

No.

He shivered slightly at the thought. No. No, he couldn't go back there. There would be nothing there but ashes and mouldering bones. That was no home.

Where, then?

_Maybe she can help me._

He smiled to himself. The girl had helped him so much already – perhaps she could tell him where to go. She seemed to know so much.

Yes.

Skandar sighed and relaxed for the first time since he had come to this place, so accustomed to doing as he was told by now that waiting to be given an order by his host made him feel safe. In his mind, whoever gave him orders – whoever _owned_ him – always knew what he should do. Ingë would know.

Lying on her back in her own bed, Ingë too was lying awake. She stared at the ceiling in the dark, lost in thoughts of her guest.

_Skandar._ His name chased itself around inside her head. Skandar. Such a fine, strong name – not a human name, but… elvish?

She had seen elves of course; plenty of times. They were thin and their hair tended to be blonde or silver-grey, or very pale brown. She had never liked them much. There was something about their silence and their unnatural beauty that made her feel threatened. And for their part, _they_ didn't seem to like her either. She had often noticed them watching herself and her parents with hostile expressions, but she didn't understand why. Nor would her parents tell her.

_Maybe it's because I'm human,_ she thought, with unexpected bitterness. _Humans aren't good enough to even look at elves._

But Skandar wasn't like that, she added hastily. No, Skandar was…

…_dark. _

She smiled to herself in the gloom, feeling a sensual little thrill at the thought. He wasn't like the elves she had seen before, not at all. She had never seen an elf with black hair and black eyes like his, or with those angular features. No, Skandar wasn't like _those_ elves, with their disdainful stares and false smiles.

_My gods,_ she thought suddenly, aware of what she was doing.

Embarrassed, she pushed the thought away. Skandar wouldn't be… wouldn't want to hear that sort of thing. The poor man seemed so frightened of her, as if he were expecting her to hurt him the way his last master probably had. She wasn't sure what she had expected him to do when she offered him food and comfort, but the awkward, frightened way he had accepted them was heartbreaking.

_But of course,_ she thought. _He's so used to being hurt and ignored, and uncared-for. I can't expect him to be happy and friendly straight away. _

_But he will,_ she promised herself. _Once he gets used to it. And then maybe he'll tell me things. I want to know so much!_

She grinned wickedly to herself, unable to stop herself wondering treacherously how he would react if she told him she thought he was the most handsome man she had ever seen.

Almost instantly, the thought made her feel ashamed. He was an elf – he would _never_ be interested in a human. Saying something like that would be utterly insensitive. And besides, she was a lady and he was a slave …_had been_ a slave, she corrected herself.

'Don't be silly,' she said aloud. 'Think sensibly.'

His face lingered in her mind's eye, as she drifted off to sleep.


	9. Sin

Chapter Nine

**Chapter Nine**

**Sin**

Several days passed, and little by little Skandar found himself relaxing into this strange new life. At first he had the lingering and persistent fear that it was a lie, or a dream, and that one day out of the blue the slavers would come back to take him away, or Ingë would suddenly change her mind and put him back in chains. But neither happened.

Ingë treated him like a guest; sharing her meals with him and enquiring after his health. She gave him little gifts, and her face would light up when she saw him, as if he were somehow… special. Something other than a vile dark elf, and a slave.

Skandar too came to like the sight of her, and to enjoy her company too. She was so talkative, but she made him feel safe and wanted. Though she was shorter and undoubtedly weaker than him, he began to look upon her as his protector – a powerful guardian, keeping him safe from the world that hated him, making certain that he would never be put into chains again.

And yet there _was_ something that bothered him. Not her – never _her_ – but…

One day, while they were eating breakfast together, he screwed up his courage and said, 'Ingë?'

'Yes?'

'I was…' he coughed nervously and fiddled with his spoon. 'I was… wondering…'

Ingë sat up straighter. 'Yes?'

Skandar frowned. 'I hope I'm not being rude or anything,' he said, 'But there's something I was wondering about.'

She reached out to touch his hand, sending a little thrill through him. 'Go on,' she said softly. 'I won't be angry. Ask whatever you like.'

Emboldened, Skandar looked up. 'That symbol,' he said, indicating a nearby cup. 'I've seen it everywhere in this house. And… you wear it around your neck, too,' he added shyly.

She touched the stone pendant at her throat. 'Oh, you mean the triple-spiral? That's just the emblem of our house – it's been in our family for centuries.'

'But… but…'

'What?'

'But it's dark elvish!' Skandar blurted.

Ingë stared at him. 'What?'

Skandar panicked. He cringed away from her, covering his head. 'Oh moon, please don't hurt me, I didn't mean to say it! Please, I won't do it again, I swear!'

'Skandar! What-?'

He didn't hear her. He huddled in his seat, almost shaking with fear, wanting to run, run away, run anywhere… _never talk about it! Never! Never say those words, never!_

The fear threatened to swallow him, drive him mad, but-

And then she was there, touching him, but not to hurt, no… she was touching his shoulder, speaking to him…

Before he knew what he was doing, Skandar had thrown himself at her, clinging to her. She backed away slightly, but only for a moment. She put her arms around him and held him close, and, unable to control himself, Skandar buried his face in her hair and cried.

Ingë could scarcely believe what was happening. His outburst had been so unexpected, and now this… _dear gods, what did I say? _

She held onto him as tightly as she dared, and felt his thin, wiry body shake as he sobbed. It was such a strange, childish sound, utterly wrong for his powerful male form and impassive face, and it almost terrified her.

Skandar cried for a long time before he calmed down, and Ingë did not let go of him.

But he pulled away from her as his sobs died away, avoiding her eyes. 'I'm sorry… sorry…'

'Skandar.' Ingë caught him by the arm. 'Please, just tell me what I did. I didn't mean to upset you like that.'

He shuddered and rubbed his face. 'You didn't… do anything. I… I'm sorry… I should… should go.'

Ingë let go of him. 'All right. All right. Just… go back up to your room and get some rest, and I'll see you later.'

He left without another word, and she sank back into her seat and buried her face in her hands.

Up in his own room, Skandar closed the door and threw himself down in a corner, where he huddled down, hugging his knees. He realised he was gasping, as if he had escaped from drowning. 'Oh moon… oh moon… shadows… help me… great god of the night…'

_What have you done? Skandar what have you _done?

He clutched at his head, squeezing as if trying to kill himself. He'd ruined everything! Talking about forbidden things, daring to _touch_ her like that! And leaving so abruptly, without asking permission…

A memory came back, unbidden, of his mother. She looked sternly at him, her hand resting on his shoulder. _Skandar, that was very rude. You must go back and apologise at once. _

He bowed his head and cried again. The tears hurt, and went on for a long time.

Ingë didn't see Skandar again that day. Perhaps he was avoiding her, or maybe she was avoiding him – she didn't know for certain, but it made her miserable all the same.

She couldn't help but feel that she had done something wrong – committed some kind of terrible offense against her friend, one that went too deep to be understood or forgiven. Part of her wanted to hide away and another part wanted to find him and beg forgiveness – though for what, she didn't know.

Skandar didn't come down for lunch that day, or for dinner either. She had food sent up to his room, but couldn't bring herself to go with it. She stayed in her own room instead, listlessly drawing swords and wondering what she was going to do with herself.

Eventually, she realised that she was lonely. She had become so used to having Skandar there to talk to – even when he said almost nothing in reply – that now he was gone she felt empty and listless.

Locked away in his own room, Skandar chewed half-heartedly at the food he had been brought. Emotion had left him feeling hollow and exhausted. He knew he was going to have to leave, and soon, but for now he felt too passive to even leave the room, let alone the house or the city.

He glanced at the window. The sky was darkening, and he sighed. Perhaps some sleep would help him to recover enough to think.

With that in mind, he curled up on the bed and quickly drifted off into a strange and half-formed dream.

His mother, lying dead in the snow. Tears, frozen on his face. Ingë, pale-faced and exhausted, but cradling a child and looking down at it with a loving smile. A boy, hiding in a darkened room that hid his face, sobbing softly and whispering. And the triple-spiral, the symbol of Ingë's family, burned black onto white stone, white metal, white skin.

And a man, standing with his back to Skandar, curly hair blowing in the wind, murmuring the words. _Taranisäii, I am Taranisäii, I am of the blood of Taranis, I am…_

Ingë slept restlessly – not in her bed, but on top of it, where she had settled down to read a book and fallen asleep without realising it. She too dreamed – of a sword. It was long and shining, wickedly sharp, and she held it in her hand, marvelling at its beauty. She swung it this way and that, wanting to feel its power. It moved perfectly, feather-light, following her every impulse as if it were part of her arm. She grinned and brought it down, hard. But as it swung downward she saw it was going to hit someone – Skandar, looking at her with terror in his eyes. She screamed and tried to pull it back, but too late, too late… she saw him break apart and fade away, and she screamed again, screamed his name. _SKANDAR!_

She woke up panicking, and nearly screamed when something touched her on the shoulder. Still too befuddled to do anything else, she lay very still, heart pattering.

'Ingë. Ingë?'

Skandar's voice was soft and nervous, and Ingë felt a flood of joyful relief ridiculously out of proportion to what was actually happening.

She lifted her head, blinking when she realised it was still dark. 'Skandar?'

She heard him moving somewhere in front of her. 'Ingë. I'm sorry to wake you… I'll go if you want me to…'

'No.' Ingë roused herself as quickly as she could. 'No, it's fine. What's wrong?'

'Nothing. I wanted to show you something. It's not important.'

She slid off the bed and straightened up, rubbing her back. 'I'll come. What is it?'

'It's outside,' said Skandar. 'Not far.'

'All right.' Ingë groped for a lamp and lit it with a taper from the fire. Skandar was standing near the bed, still fully dressed, looking as solemn as always. Ingë smiled at him, glad to see he looked more or less healthy. 'Just wait a moment,' she said, and set the lamp down on the table while she got out her warmest cloak and put it on. 'It's cold tonight – do you want me to get one for you too?'

Skandar shook his head. 'No, thankyou.'

'All right.' Ingë picked up the lamp. 'Show me whatever it is.'

Skandar nodded and led her out of the room. He didn't take her downstairs, as she'd expected, but along the moonlit corridor and to his own room, where the window was wide open, letting in a freezing wind. He went over to it and looked back at her. 'It's this way.'

'What, out the window?' said Ingë.

'Yes. Look; I'll show you.' Skandar hooked a leg over the sill and climbed out onto the roof.

Ingë set down the lamp and poked her head through the window. 'Why do you want to go out there?' she asked nervously.

'So I can show you something,' said Skandar. 'Please, come.'

Ingë thought of telling him it was unsafe, but her old reckless impulse came back and she put the lamp down and slid through the window, cursing under her breath when her cloak caught on the latch.

Skandar was already walking across the roof, incredibly calm and sure-footed at this height. 'It's up here,' he called back.

Ingë watched him, and shivered. 'Ye gods…'

Skandar had sat down and was watching her expectantly. She sighed, screwed up her courage, and struck out toward him.

The roof wasn't very sharply sloped, and there were plenty of footholds among the ornamentations and windows, but Ingë didn't enjoy the climb one bit. Only the sight of Skandar waiting for her kept her going.

She reached the spot where he had sat down – the very top of the roof, where it flattened out into a broad ledge. There were some spires here to hold onto, and once she had reached it she felt much safer. Skandar had sat down between two of the spires, and when she sat next to him they were so close together they were touching. Ingë blushed, but stayed where she was. At least they could keep each other warm.

Skandar smiled at her, his face lit up by the half-moon. 'It's beautiful up here,' he said.

Ingë looked outward from the roof, and saw all the lights of the city laid out below. 'It certainly is,' she said. 'Skandar, have you been up here before?'

'Yes. Many times.'

'Why?'

He looked her in the face. 'I wanted to see the stars. See them, Ingë?'

She looked upward, and sighed. 'Of course I do. They look so bright from here, don't they?'

'That's what I wanted to show you,' said Skandar.

Ingë looked at him – so close to her, all dark and mysterious, but so fascinating. 'Thankyou,' she said. 'It's beautiful.'

'You don't mind that I woke you up?'

'Not at all. Sleeping is something I can do any time. _This_ is…'

Is what?

'…is something you can't… do any time,' she finished lamely.

'You can do it any night,' said Skandar, with a hint of amusement.

_Not like this. _

'Well thankyou,' Ingë said again.

Silence followed, but it was a comfortable silence.

'I had a strange dream,' Skandar said, breaking it.

The remark caught her off-guard. 'You did? What was it about?'

'Many things, I think,' said Skandar. He paused – a long, deep pause. 'My… my mother…'

Ingë leant toward him. 'Yes?'

'My mother was a seer,' said Skandar, so quietly she only just heard him – as if he were afraid of being heard. 'She saw… things in her dreams. Secret things. I think, maybe… I saw things too. In this dream.'

'You think you saw the future?'

'Yes.'

Ingë thrilled. 'What did you see?'

'I saw…' Skandar looked at her, eyes shining with starlight. 'I saw that you will have a son, Ingë. A fine son. I saw him, from behind. He had your curly hair.' His hand lifted toward it, as if he wanted to touch it, but did not. 'I heard him say "I am of the House of Taranis. The blood of Taranis".'

His words were soft, almost hypnotic. They made her want to cry. 'A son?' she whispered.

'Yes. I saw you holding him.'

A son… Ingë hugged herself, thinking about it. She had known she would have children one day… after she married the young Lord Aisling, she would almost certainly bear him at least one son.

She sighed. Gods, to have children with someone she barely knew. But at least they would be hers.

'A son,' she said aloud. 'Well. I'm… happy. I _would_ like to have children one day.'

'I would have liked to as well,' Skandar muttered. 'Oh moon, to be the last of my line…'

Ingë gripped his hand. 'What do you mean the last? Skandar?'

He started as if she had just woken him up. 'It's… oh, Ingë, why should I bother you with my troubles? They're nothing now. Just the moaning of a tired man who's lived far beyond his years.'

'But I care!' Ingë burst forth. 'Skandar, I _care! _That's why I saved you that day; that's why I brought you here and cared for you. Why else would I have done it? I like you, and I want to know you properly, if you'd just… let me.' She stopped. 'Oh gods, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that… I'm sorry… it's none of my business. I keep telling myself I should leave you alone, but…'

'But what?' said Skandar.

She laughed miserably. 'Look at me, Skandar. What a fool I've been. I'm barely old enough to marry – I've seen nothing of the world, I've never left this city. I've lived in this house all my life. I waste my time dreaming about grand things just because I can't have them. Why do I care? I care because I think you're fascinating. I just want to know things so I can _know_. That's all.'

Skandar chuckled quietly. 'You want to know about… me? Skandar Traeganni the slave?'

'_Not_ a slave,' said Ingë. 'You're a free man… a free elf now. Remember that. And I want to know, Skandar. But only if you want to tell.'

Silence again – waiting silence. Skandar looked at the stars, and the moon, showing no sign of what he was thinking. Ingë, watching him, wanted to reach out to him again, but she forced herself not to.

'I am a dark elf,' Skandar said at last, softly. 'A Northern elf. A shadow elf, a moon elf. I am not a Southern elf – a pale elf. I am not one of those elves who rule this land. The dark elves have never ruled anything but themselves. I am a dark elf… I am the last dark elf.'

Ingë took his hand. 'What happened to the others?'

'The riders killed them,' he said, not looking at her. 'I was there.'

'The _riders?' _Ingë breathed in sharply. 'The riders killed – _why?_ Why would they do that?'

Skandar looked at her. 'Because of you,' he said simply.

'Me?'

'Yes… humans.' He sighed. 'The riders were afraid of us… the pale elves were afraid. Once, long ago, there was a man… a human man… a human _we_ taught. He was the first rider, and we taught him out ways. We hoped…'

'The first rider?' said Ingë. 'But the first rider was an elf – Eragon…'

'Lies,' Skandar hissed. 'Pale elvish lies. The first rider was _ours,_ not theirs. A human man, bonded to a black dragon. He should have been the first of many. We believed that one day a dark elf would become a rider, but it never did happen, because of that man. That fool of a man. He left us, betrayed us… went to war without us, and Eragon killed him. Killed our hope.'

'How?' said Ingë. 'I don't understand.'

'The pale elves feared we would create more riders like that human,' said Skandar. 'And they had always hated us, always been our enemies. They made more riders, made a pact with the dragons before we could… drove us out of our homes. My home… my family… we were the last survivors. We lived in secret, until the riders found us, and…'

'But how could they have done that?' said Ingë. 'Riders don't… wouldn't…'

'I doubt they would let their subjects know the truth,' Skandar said bitterly. 'The pale elves control them. And we… we were a dark race, an evil race. It was their justice.'

'There's no justice in killing an entire race,' said Ingë.

'Perhaps not, but the riders have always done it,' said Skandar. 'Ever since the day they came into being. Not just my race, but many. So many. This land was home to many peoples, and now… all gone.'

'You're certain no-one escaped?' said Ingë.

Skandar's face twisted. 'They killed our King first. Graethen. The one called Vrael did it. After that…'

Ingë gripped his hand. 'Vrael? Lord Vrael? The master of the riders?'

'An elf with hair as white as his dragon,' said Skandar. 'I saw him kill Graethen. Then he killed my father, and his friends killed… everyone. They burned the houses, used magic to destroy them… I saw the bodies afterwards. And they were going to kill me too, but one of the humans said the children should be spared, so they took us captive instead. _Used_ us. Tortured us with their magic.'

Ingë wanted to throw her arms around him. 'And then they sold you.'

'Yes. The one called Oromis… he used magic on us, one by one. Most of us died; I survived. He took my magic away, forever. And after that they sold me to the mines. I never saw the others again, but they can't have survived.'

'And that's how you came to be a slave,' said Ingë. 'That's how…'

'Yes.' Skandar reached out toward her, as if he were going to touch her breasts. She drew back, but he only touched the stone pendant she wore. 'This… this symbol… this is why I decided to tell you everything.'

Ingë touched it too. 'This? Why?'

'Because that symbol is… was ours,' said Skandar. 'I knew I'd seen it before. I couldn't understand why a human noble family would use it, but tonight I realised why.'

'Why?'

'It was your surname,' said Skandar. _'Taranisäii. _"Of the blood of Taranis".'

'Yes, Taranis was our ancestor,' said Ingë. 'Our line goes back a very long way.'

'I know,' Skandar muttered. 'All the way back to before the riders came into being.'

'How do you know that?' said Ingë.

'Because the human I told you about – the first rider… when he came to the dark elves and learned our ways, we gave him a symbol. Our most powerful symbol – the triple-spiral, the sign of the full moon, the symbol that had belonged to our rulers for hundreds of years. A symbol he took with him when he returned to his own kind. He also took the name we gave him.'

Ingë's mouth fell open. '_Taranis.'_

'Yes. Lord Taranis of the dark elves, the first rider.' Skandar growled to himself. 'That fool. He thought that his power as a rider made him invincible – that he could fight the pale elves all on his own! And he had the spine to keep our symbol after he betrayed us! Not just any symbol, but the _royal _symbol – the sign of Kings! _My _sign!'

'_Your_ sign?' said Ingë.

Skandar breathed deeply, his passion bringing him alive as nothing else could have. 'My sign!' he said again, his voice loud and ringing with anger. 'I am not a slave, and I never will be again! I am Prince Skandar Traeganni, last of the royal line, descended from Tynyth Traeganni herself. _That _is what I am, and that is what I always will be!'

Ingë drew away from him, more frightened of him than she had ever been before. He sounded so angry that she was convinced he was angry with _her,_ and up here…

'Skandar, I'm so sorry,' she said. 'Oh gods, I'm so sorry. I didn't know… I had no idea…'

He turned on her, almost violently. 'But don't you see?' he exclaimed. 'This symbol – your name – they're signs! The symbol is mine, and yours – it called me to you. Don't you see? We were fated to meet. The gods willed it, Ingë.'

'The gods?' she almost squeaked. 'You believe in…'

'Of course I do,' said Skandar. He calmed down a little. 'Dark elves worshipped the moon, and so do I. Look, up there.' He gestured at her to look at the moon. 'That is the eye of my god, looking down,' he said. 'The half-moon, the half-open eye. The half-moon is a time for destiny. Why else do you think the moon is there, if not so the gods can see us – watch over us?'

'I don't know,' Ingë stammered. 'I never thought about it. The… it's forbidden to…'

'I still believe it,' said Skandar. 'The riders took my magic, but they can't take my faith, and they never will. The moon spared me for a reason, and it brought me to you for a reason too.'

'But what reason?' said Ingë.

'I don't know,' said Skandar. 'But it must be because there is something we must do – both of us.'

Ingë was silent for a long time.

'Take revenge on the riders?' she said eventually.

Skandar looked down on the city. 'It could be that,' he muttered. 'But what could we do? I have no magic, and neither do you.'

'You know,' said Ingë, 'I always used to dream of being a rider. Having a dragon of my own, to fly wherever I wanted… to live forever, and to have magic like that…'

'Power isn't something everybody should have,' said Skandar. 'It's far too easy to abuse.'

'Yes,' said Ingë.

Silence.

'Ingë?'

She pressed herself against him, wanting to protect him somehow. 'What is it, Skandar?'

He didn't look her in the eye. 'I don't think I'll live much longer.'

Her stomach lurched. 'Why, Skandar?'

'I don't know, but… I have a feeling. I don't even know why I've lived this long. Seeing the others destroyed should have killed me. Despair can kill us, you know. But…' he looked at her now. 'But I am glad I lived this long, only so I could meet you.'

Ingë looked back at him, so vulnerable in the moonlight, and all at once it hit her.

_I'm in love with him,_ she thought, quite matter-of-factly. _I've been in love with him ever since we first spoke. Oh gods…_

'Ingë?'

She shook herself. 'I know, Skandar,' she said. 'I think I know.'

'Do you?' he asked unexpectedly.

Ingë looked him in the eye. 'Yes. I do. Gods, Skandar – what are we going to do?'

He smiled. 'You always seem to know what to do; why don't you tell me?'

She laughed, too loudly. 'I don't _always_ know what to do.'

'By the shadows, are all human women like you?' said Skandar.

'Like what?'

'This self-assured,' said Skandar. 'This forthright. This… beautiful.'

Her heart skipped a beat. 'Oh, I doubt it,' she said lightly.

'Ingë,' he said, serious now. 'I wanted to ask you-,'

'Yes?'

'When I leave here, will you come with me?'

'Oh.' She wilted inside. 'Oh gods, Skandar, I can't. My parents need me here, and… there's just so many things…'

Suddenly he was much closer. 'Well,' he muttered. 'Well then, forgive me for this.'

And he kissed her.

'_Skandar!'_

He looked at her, quite calm. 'Did I do something wrong?'

Ingë stared at him for a moment, all her thoughts and emotions mixed up inside her. She took in his black eyes, so deep and wonderful, and his black hair, stirring about his face. _Oh gods, but I want him_,she thought. _And who would know? No-one can see us up here… no-one would know…_

It was too much. She threw caution to the winds, and kissed him back – a passionate kiss, one which drew them closer together, and before she knew what was happening they were tangled in each other's arms, wonderfully together, pressed into each other so tightly it was as if they wanted to become one being.

Skandar, clumsy in his eagerness, quickly began to pull at her clothing, but she resisted at that.

'Skandar, don't,' she said.

He looked at her with hurt in his eyes. 'Why? Don't you want me to?'

'I do,' she breathed. 'I do. But we can't risk… if I conceived… they would find out.'

Skandar laughed – a short, harsh, bitter laugh. 'Don't be afraid, Ingë. They took my fertility when they took my magic. I'll never father a child.'

At that, the last of her fear and uncertainty fled away. What did it matter if she was ready – what did it matter if it hurt her? He _needed_ her, needed her to love him.

_And I need him._

She lost herself in his passionate kisses again, and let herself forget everything, and they made love. Clumsy love, painful love, there in the cold open air, but love all the same.

The half-moon above watched – the only witness to their sin, their crime. Not just a crime against nobility, not just a crime against race, but a crime against the very world itself.

That night, though neither of them were to know it then, Skandar and Ingë planted the seed of destruction. That night Galbatorix Taranisäii, scourge of the riders, was conceived.


	10. The Sword Falls

Chapter Ten

**Chapter Ten**

**The Sword Falls**

So began the love between Ingë and Skandar – a love born hastily and awkwardly, but a love which lingered and was nurtured and brought to maturity. Day after day they spent together, hiding from the servants, keeping their relationship outwardly formal. Ingë, declaring that her new slave had "recovered" from his ordeal, set him to work in different parts of the house. Light work – washing pots, weeding the gardens, repairing furniture.

For all the servants saw, Ingë had apparently lost interest in her slave and only spoke to him to give him orders. He had moved out of the guest bedroom and into a dingy cell in a disused part of the house.

None of them ever saw Ingë visit him there, in the dead of night. None of them knew anything of the secret caresses that took place between them. And why would any of them have suspected it? The elf was sullen and silent, and strange-looking – nothing a young well-brought-up noblewoman such as Ingë could ever want.

For Ingë, it was one of the strangest, most frightening and yet most wonderful times of her life. She forgot about her sword, and forgot about all the other grand dreams she had been saving for her time as mistress of the house. All her time belonged to Skandar now.

One night, several weeks after their relationship had begun, she brought something special with her to show him.

Skandar took it carefully. 'What is this?'

Ingë sat down beside him on his simple pallet bed, snuggling against him. 'It's a dragon egg!' she said.

Skandar's eyes widened. 'A dragon-?'

'Oh, don't get too excited,' said Ingë. 'It's not real. It's just a copy. But a very good one. No-one seems to know what it's made from, but it's been in our family for centuries.'

Skandar turned it over in his hands, feeling its smooth jet surface. 'Perhaps it's a replica of the one Taranis had. Black dragons are said to be very rare.'

'I've only ever heard of one black dragon,' said Ingë. 'And that was just a legend.'

Skandar put his arm around her and held her close. 'Oh yes? And what did that legend say?'

Ingë frowned. 'Oh… just that there was a giant black dragon who lived long ago and had the power to create terrible storms. He was a demon dragon, and was killed by E… by some hero,' she finished lamely.

'I know that story,' said Skandar. 'The black dragon's name was Ravana, and it's said he was mated to the dragon Taranis rode. But nobody knows what became of him.'

'The riders probably killed him,' said Ingë. 'That's what they do with everything dark, isn't it?'

Skandar blinked at the unexpected bitterness in her voice. 'They didn't kill me, at least. I thank the moon every night for that.'

Ingë grinned wickedly. 'Yes, you've shouted out to it more than once while I've been here.'

Skandar snickered. 'The moon likes to be remembered at very special times, you know. My mother taught me that.'

'Tell me about her,' said Ingë.

He paused. 'Her name was Arthryn. She was a seer – someone the moon blessed with visions. Sometimes, when the gods willed it, she would see the future in her dreams.'

'Did she see… what happened to you?'

Skandar sighed and gave the egg back to her. 'No. I remember how angry she was with herself. She said that if only she could have a vision, then she could help us decide what to do. But she saw nothing. I still can't understand why.' His expression twisted. 'But I used to think, when I was in the mines…'

Ingë touched his hand. 'Yes?'

'The moon sent no visions to her, because it couldn't help us,' said Skandar. 'Or didn't want to help us. Maybe it wanted us to be destroyed.'

'But how could it do that?' said Ingë. 'If it's your god, shouldn't it protect you?'

'"The moon is a harsh mistress",' said Skandar. 'My mother used to say that. We disappointed it, and were punished.'

Ingë shivered. 'That's horrible. I'd rather have no gods at all than a god like that.'

'We didn't choose our god,' Skandar sighed. 'It chose us. Made us. It's our duty to accept the fate it gives us.'

Beside him, Ingë grimaced and shifted.

'What is it?'

She put a hand to her stomach. 'It's nothing… I just feel a bit sick.'

Skandar took the egg and put it aside. 'Maybe you should go back to your room and have some rest.'

Ingë grinned and took him by the shoulder. 'What, and leave you all alone?'

They kissed; a lingering, hot kiss whose passion was only heightened by the fear both of them had of being seen.

'I want you to come with me,' Skandar told her softly, when it was over. 'Ingë…'

She tried to silence him with another kiss, but he pulled away.

'Ingë, please,' he said. 'You know I can't stay here. When your parents get back…'

'Let me handle them,' she said dismissively. 'They wouldn't dare.'

'But you're betrothed,' said Skandar. 'You told me that. What will happen when they send you away to marry?'

Ingë shivered. 'Please, don't talk about it. I don't want to think about that now.'

'But you have to,' Skandar said softly, almost tenderly. 'Please, see that, Ingë. I can't stay here or your parents will send me away… maybe sell me again. I don't know where I would go, but maybe I could find a place to live.'

'It's all right,' said Ingë. 'I can help you. I'll give you everything you need – help you get out of the city.'

'But I can't go,' said Skandar. 'Not without you! Ingë, I love you. I can't bear the thought of living away from you. How can I run away and leave you here?'

'Skandar.' She pressed her cheek against his bare chest. 'You know I love you too, don't you? I've told you so many times. And you know I… that I wouldn't want to be away from you either. It's just that…'

Skandar wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. 'Just that what?'

'It's one thing if a slave is sold to a new owner and then disappears,' said Ingë. 'But if a noblewoman – the only daughter of Lord Wulfgar Taranisäii – vanishes along with him… Skandar, they'd hunt us down. My father would do everything in his power to get me back. And they'd accuse you of kidnapping me and put you to death; you _know_ what the riders are like. If I went with you, I'd be nothing but a hindrance, and a curse.'

Skandar's face was full of bitterness. 'If I lived away from you, I wouldn't be alive.'

Ingë kissed him on the chest, and worked her way up his neck. 'Then don't go,' she mumbled. 'Stay with me. I'll protect you.' She reached his face. 'And we'll find a way to stay together.'

Ingë spent whole days thinking about this conversation, though she avoided talking about it with Skandar again. She knew she couldn't keep pretending – sooner or later they would have to think of a plan, before her parents came home and hiding their relationship would become even harder and far more dangerous.

She had no illusions: she knew perfectly well that if her parents found out she had taken a slave – an _elvish_ slave – as her lover, then the consequences would be dire. Skandar would be taken away from her, and sold again, or even killed. She barely even paused to wonder whether they would punish her too – they wouldn't dare. If news got out, the scandal would destroy the House of Taranis' reputation. No, she was safe. But the need to protect Skandar became more and more urgent to her as the time passed.

Perhaps spurred on by this sense of urgency, her physical relationship with him became even more intense – even frantic. Ingë didn't mind. She had come to love it as much as she loved Skandar, and the pain that sometimes came with it only served to excite her even more.

But the situation was taking a toll on her, nonetheless.

'Skandar?'

'Hmm?'

She sighed and tried to relax in his arms. They were resting together in the dim lantern-light in the little slave-cell. 'I'm feeling a bit… uncomfortable.'

He raised his head slightly. 'I didn't hurt you, did I?'

Ingë stretched, luxuriating in her nakedness. 'No. Or not in a bad way. But I think…' she turned onto her side, and played with his hair. 'I've been feeling out of sorts for a while.'

'How do you mean?'

'Oh, I don't know.' She rolled a lock of hair between her fingers, loving the perfect, pure black of it. 'Tired, I suppose. And sometimes I wake up feeling sick.'

'Bad dreams?'

'A few,' she confessed. 'I think… I must be worrying too much. My mother always says that can make you ill.'

Skandar yawned. 'Try meditating every morning.'

'Meditating? What's that?'

'Oh. A dark elvish practise,' said Skandar. 'It's a form of relaxation and focusing for the mind. Young elves had to do it every day when they were learning magic.'

'Magic!' Ingë snapped back into full alertness at that. 'You never said you had magic!'

'I don't,' said Skandar.

'But don't all elves have magic?'

'Yes. Ours was very powerful. Dark magic, it was. And we could do things with our minds…' Skandar strained to remember. 'It was all so long ago…'

'Why don't you have magic, though?' said Ingë. 'If you did, you could have used it…'

'They took it away,' said Skandar. 'They cast a spell on us – all the children. It tore the magic out of us.'

Ingë shuddered. 'How could they?'

'It stopped us from being a danger,' Skandar said simply. 'They took our magic and our mental powers as well. The shock made us sterile.'

Her mind flew back to that night, on the rooftop. _They took my fertility when they took my magic. _'Oh… you told me, before… I must have forgotten. Gods, I'm sorry, Skandar. I'm so sorry…'

'Well,' he said gruffly. 'I was too young to know many spells anyway. And I was lucky. Most of the others died. And the spell was supposed to take away our immortality, but it didn't.'

Ingë looked him in the face. 'How do you know… how _old_ are you?'

'I am forty-five years old,' said Skandar, and chuckled at her expression. 'I know I don't look it. I never aged physically beyond how I look now. And once I thought I would wrinkle and die in less than a hundred years, like some-!' he stopped, and cringed. 'I'm sorry-,'

Ingë only laughed. 'Well you were lucky then, weren't you? You won't have to put up with grey hairs and brittle bones like we poor humans. No wonder you elves think you're better than us.'

'_I _don't,' said Skandar, without any humour. 'I never have.'

She stopped at that. 'You never what?'

Skandar snuggled closer to her. 'Never thought I was better than your people. Dark elves don't, you know… didn't. We always thought humans were a special race. My father told me stories about your kind; stories about your heroes and rulers and scholars. He said humans were special because they lived such a short time, but did so much with that time. You grew so much, and found so much wisdom without the need for magic or immortality. Life is so much more beautiful for you than it is for me, Ingë. And that's what I love most about you.'

Ingë listened, and felt her eyes moisten unexpectedly. 'But elves are so much more beautiful than we are.'

'But you _see_ beauty!' said Skandar. 'Imagine it! _Revel_ in it! You feel joy so much more than we do – more than the pale elves with their fale laughter, and _us_… we dark elves were always solemn. We didn't laugh or cry, except very rarely. It was frowned upon in my village. But you humans feel so much passion… you _feel_ so much. That is what makes you special.'

Ingë kissed him. 'I love you, Skandar. I love you so much. And I always will.'

Two days later, Ingë woke up feeling ill once again. She went down for breakfast in a grumpy mood, and found a servant waiting for her.

'What is it?'

The servant bowed. 'My Lady, a messenger has arrived. Shall I send him in?'

Ingë rubbed her eyes. 'Fine, fine. I'll be in the dining room.'

She shuffled away in that direction.

The messenger came in while she was chewing listlessly at a piece of bread. 'Permission to speak, my Lady?'

Ingë picked up a mug of mint tea. 'By all means, go ahead.'

'Lord and Lady Taranisäii have arrived back at the city,' said the man. 'They are on their way here now and have sent me ahead to alert you.'

Ingë nearly dropped her mug. 'What? When will they be here?'

'They have stopped at the castle to speak with Lord Menulis, but they should be here before noon, my Lady.'

'I see. You may go.'

The messenger left, and Ingë breathed deeply, trying to calm herself down. When she felt better, she left the dining room and slipped away to see Skandar. He was already up and helping the kitchen maid clean some pots. Under the guise of moving closer to give him an order, Ingë deliberately dropped her ring on the floor. Both of them crouched to pick it up, and their eyes met.

'My parents are home,' Ingë whispered, as she pretended to grope for the ring. 'They'll be here before noon. Keep quiet and I'll explain. Everything's going to be fine, I promise.'

She stood up, keeping her expression haughty and dismissive.

Skandar quietly put the ring into her hand. 'I shall be glad to meet your parents, master.'

'That's enough,' Ingë said sharply. 'It isn't for you to _meet_ nobles, slave. Stay out of their way or I'll make you sorry for it.'

'I understand, master,' said Skandar, in the flat voice he had learnt so well over the years.

Ingë winked at him and left the kitchen, her mind a turmoil.

There were things to do to prepare for her parents' arrival; she spoke to the servants, giving various orders to them to clean the house and begin work on a special lunch to welcome the Lord and Lady Taranisäii home. As for Skandar, she sent him outside to work in the garden, hoping to keep him out of sight for as long as possible.

Once she was done, she went up to her own room and chose her best gown and jewellery, and spent a good half hour sitting at her dressing-table, carefully combing her hair. She hated it to be messy.

When she was finally done, she put on her fresh gown and went downstairs with her heart pounding.

Her gut felt uncomfortable, too. She rubbed it irritably and went to see how the servants were going.

Everything looked in order; the house was tidy, and she could already smell lunch cooking. For some reason, the delicious scent of baking pies made her stomach twist. She desperately wanted to go outside and talk to Skandar, but she didn't dare. _Tonight,_ she promised herself. _If I can…_

She heard a shout from one of the servants near the front of the house, and hurried out toward the door. Sandor opened it for her, and she went outside in time to see her parents' carriage stop on the gravel near the stables.

_Oh gods,_ she thought.

Walking as slowly and with as much fear as if she were being led to the gallows, she went outside. She saw the carrige door open, and her father stepped out first.

Ingë went to meet him, and saw his face light up with a smile. 'Ingë!' he said.

She folded her hands over her stomach, and bowed her head to him. 'Father.'

'Come here,' he said, and took her in a rough bear-hug. 'Ah, I'm happy to see you! Your mother seemed to think we'd find the house burnt down if we left you alone in it this long!'

Ingë grinned at him. 'I managed well enough. Mother!'

Lady Taranisäii embraced her daughter. 'Ingë! I missed you so much!'

Ingë let go of her. 'I missed you too. But come on inside – you must be tired, and I've had lunch prepared for you…'

'Excellent!' her father beamed. 'I knew we could rely on you.' He went ahead toward the house while the servants carried his luggage in.

Ingë walked demurely beside him. 'So how was your journey? And what news do you have of my betrothed?'

'He's well,' said her mother. 'And eager to meet you.'

'That's good,' Ingë mumbled.

Lady Taranisäii gave her a sharp look. 'And how have you been while we've been away? Did the servants cause you any trouble?'

'No, Mother. They took good care of me. Especially Sandor.'

'Good. Did you see about that new horse?'

'Yes. It's in good health, the stablemaster says. And I found that cup you thought we'd lost. It was under your bed, for some reason.'

Inside, Lord and Lady Taranisäii went upstairs to clean up and put on fresh clothes. Ingë waited politely at the foot of the stairs, trying not to glance at the back window too often. She could see Skandar on the other side, slowly and meticulously trimming the branches of an ornamental tree.

Once her parents had returned, she went with them into the dining room where lunch was served.

Lady Taranisäii was on fine form, telling stories about Dras-Leona and its various nobles while the servants laid out the food. Ingë pretended to listen, and did her best to look interested, but she felt so sick she couldn't eat anything that was put in front of her.

'So,' her mother said eventually. 'How were things back here?'

Ingë hesitated for a long, long moment. 'I…'

It was exactly the wrong thing to do: both her parents looked up, and almost instantly her mother's face darkened with suspicion. 'What is it? Did something bad happen?'

'Well, no, not _bad_, exactly… just… unexpected,' Ingë managed. 'I…'

'What is it?' her father said sternly. 'Just tell us.'

'Well…' Ingë paused, trying to recall exactly what she had planned to tell them. 'I… found a new servant… sort of.'

'A new servant?' her mother's eyebrow went up. 'I wasn't aware that we needed one.'

'Well, he's not really a servant,' said Ingë. 'He's… well, a servant we don't have to pay.'

'What do you mean?' said her mother. 'You're not making any sense.'

'Wait,' said her father. 'Are you saying you bought a _slave?'_

'Yes,' said Ingë, in a small voice.

Her mother was horrified. 'What? Ingë! What were you thinking? Where did you find the vermin? And what in the world possessed you to _buy-,'_

'It's not like that!' Ingë said, too loudly. 'I didn't _plan_ it, it just happened.'

'_How_ did it just happen?' said Lord Taranisäii. He had lost all interest in his food, and his dark eyes were on her face, unwavering.

'I went out into the city,' said Ingë, adding hastily, 'With Sandor. Of course. I was bored and wanted to do some sightseeing.'

'And you wandered into the slave district,' her father finished for her.

'Yes. And there was a slave there they couldn't sell. Father, they were going to kill him! I couldn't just let him die…'

'Oh yes you could have,' her father said coldly. 'Ingë, slaves are slaves because they deserve to be. They're the worst criminal scum – the sort I would hang if I had the power. Yes, it's cruel to see a man die, but you can't try and help everyone you see just because your heart tells you to. Where is he now, then?'

'Outside, tending to the garden,' said Ingë. 'Father, he's not _like_ that. He didn't do anything.'

'Or so he told you,' said her father. 'You're going to get rid of him. Today.'

'No!'

The word burst out of her before she could even think.

At once, the table went silent.

Lord Taranisäii leaned over the table, his expression full of controlled danger. 'I'm going to pretend you didn't say that. I am the master of this house, and I will not tolerate having a slave on my property, and especially not anywhere near my only child. We are taking him back to the slave market where he belongs, and nothing you say is going to stop that. Understand?'

Ingë shrank back. 'But we can't,' she whispered. 'He's not a criminal. He's a good man.'

'A slave, a good man!' her mother burst forth. 'Ingë, what's wrong with you?'

'Well you'll never be able to sell him again anyway!' Ingë snapped, unable to contain herself any longer. 'They were going to kill him because no-one would buy him.'

'Crippled, is he?' said her father.

'No, he's an elf,' said Ingë, and she couldn't keep the triumph out of her voice. If her parents couldn't sell Skandar, then they would have no choice but to let him stay. And maybe, if they got to know him…

Her mother went pale. _'What?'_

'He's an elf,' Ingë repeated. 'That's why no-one wanted him.'

Lord Taranisäii stood up. 'I want to see him.'

Ingë led them both outside, to where Skandar was working. He stood up at their approach, wiping dirt off his hands, and bowed low to the Lord and Lady without saying a word.

Lord Taranisäii looked him up and down, paying particular attention to his ears. 'Oh sweet gods,' he breathed. 'You _are_ an elf.'

Skandar inclined his head. 'My Lord Taranisäii. It's an honour to meet you.'

Lady Taranisäii was looking at him with something like awe. 'What's your name, elf?'

'I am called Skandar Traeganni, my Lady.'

'But you're a slave,' said Lady Taranisäii. 'Why would an elf be a slave?'

'He's-,' Ingë began.

'My people were conquered by the riders,' Skandar said suddenly and unexpectedly. 'I was one of those who were sold afterward. The lady Ingë saved my life.'

Ingë folded her arms and looked expectantly at her parents.

Lord Taranisäii said nothing for a long time. He looked as unreadable as Skandar often did.

'We're going back inside to finish lunch,' he said at last. 'You – slave – go back to your work.'

'Yes, master.'

With that, Lord Taranisäii turned on his heel and went back the way he had come, with Lady Taranisäii by his side. Ingë paused to share a confident smile with Skandar, and followed them.

The rest of lunch passed in stony silence. Lady Taranisäii looked as if she wanted to ask more questions, but kept them to herself. Lord Taranisäii, however, looked perfectly calm as he ate. Ingë wasn't fooled. She knew he was thinking deeply, and she didn't try and interrupt. She had put him into a corner, and now he was looking for a way out that wouldn't make him look weak. She had realised how he thought a long time ago.

When they had finished eating, Lord Taranisäii finally broke his silence.

'We should go upstairs and get some rest,' he told his wife. 'Come.'

They left the table together, though her mother threw her a significant look before they exited the room. Ingë knew they were going to talk about the situation in private, and she shivered. They were going to decide Skandar's fate. And, in a way, her own.

Lord and Lady Taranisäii were gone for a long time – an agonisingly long time.

Ingë couldn't do anything while she waited. She wanted to go to Skandar – at least, with him there, they could share their anxiety. It took all of her willpower to stay away, but stay away she did, feeling sicker and sicker until her father finally came looking for her.

He looked calm on the outside, but his breathing betrayed his anger. 'Your mother tells me we do need extra help in the stables,' he said shortly. 'And I do not want my name associated with slavers. That is the only reason why I have decided to let the elf stay.'

Ingë wanted to hug him. 'I understand, Father.'

'Good. Then understand this…' his jaw tightened. 'I am very disappointed in you, Ingë. I thought I could trust you to conduct yourself properly on your own, but I was wrong. Visiting the slave district? Buying slaves? What sort of behaviour is that? You're a Lady, Ingë! The sole heir of the Taranisäiis – the oldest and noblest bloodline in Alagaësia! How could you do this? Degrade our name – humiliate us?'

Ingë felt a flicker of remorse, beyond her overwhelming triumph. 'I'm sorry, Father,' she said formally. 'I did all I could to act like a Lady. I only thought that… this would help us.'

'How?' Lord Taranisäii said sharply. 'How do you expect this to help us?'

'The riders don't like us,' said Ingë. 'I know that. They never have. I thought that saving an elf's life would help to bring us favour from them. I was wrong, but that was my intention.'

Lord Wulfgar Taranisäii's face softened. 'You're no fool when it comes to politics at least, I'll admit that.' He sighed. 'You always were a rebel, weren't you? You know, I always wished to have a son – instead I had a daughter who acts like one.'

Ingë gave in and hugged him. 'Thankyou, Father. I'm sorry I upset you. But Skandar's a good worker, and having an elf here, following our orders… well, it's special, isn't it?'

Her father smiled. 'Yes, considering that we live under the rule of his people. And if he isn't a murderer or a thief, then we should be safe enough. Now, I'm tired and I need to get some rest. I'll see you at dinner.'

Ingë let him go, her heart singing. The instant he was out of sight, she checked to make sure she wasn't being watched and crept outside.

Skandar was near the door – waiting for her. 'Hello, my Lady,' he said, with just a hint of mischief.

Ingë threw caution to the winds, and kissed him passionately. 'You can stay, Skandar. My father decided.'

Skandar laughed. 'You're certain?'

'Yes,' she said, without hesitation. 'Now he knows you're an elf, he wouldn't dream of selling you. Anyway, he said you can work in the stable. Do you know anything about horses?'

'My people have always had a gift with animals,' said Skandar. 'I can work with them well enough.'

Ingë remembered herself, and pulled away. 'I'll come again tonight,' she whispered, before she let him go.

Days passed, and life returned to its old rhythm. Ingë and Skandar kept up their act – she ignored him most of the time, and treated him with contempt the rest of the time, and he acted as a slave should, doing all he was asked without saying a word.

But all the while, Ingë continued to visit him every night in secret, her confidence increased a hundredfold.

All her fears had vanished now. Skandar could stay, and was under her father's protection now. Nothing could pull them apart, as long as they were careful, and the stablemaster and her father were both pleased with his work with the horses. Soon they would see him as invaluable and would never even think of sending him away – she was certain of it.

But sooner or later something had to happen to disrupt their secret life, and it did.

Once she had settled back into her old routine, Ingë began to notice strange things.

She was sick in the mornings, more and more often. She felt tired all the time, no matter how much sleep she had. And finally, nearly three months after Skandar had come into her life, she realised what else was wrong.

She went to see Skandar, so hastily that she didn't even wait until her parents were asleep.

He was surprised to see her, but his happy smile faded when he saw her face. 'Ingë? Is something wrong?'

Ingë shut the door behind her and put the lantern down on the floor. 'Skandar… oh gods…'

He took her in his arms. 'What is it? Has something happened? You're shaking!'

Ingë tried desperately to control herself, but tears were already threatening. 'Skandar. Skandar, something's… happened, something impossible…'

He tensed. 'What is it? They're not going to send me away…?'

Ingë pulled away and looked him in the face. 'You told me you were sterile!'

'What? Ingë what-?'

'Skandar, I'm pregnant,' she told him. 'I'm certain of it.'

Skandar's eyes went wide. 'Pregnant… but that's impossible! I can't…'

'They didn't take your immortality away, did they?' said Ingë. 'They didn't take your fertility either. You're going to be a father, Skandar.'

'You're certain?'

'Yes. Gods,' she groaned. 'How could I have missed it? Sickness in the morning… and I haven't bled in three full moons. It can't just be a coincidence.'

Skandar couldn't say anything.

Ingë's breathing slowed, and the glimmer of a smile showed on her face. 'So I suppose… you won't be the last of your people after all.'


	11. Star Crossed

Chapter Eleven

**Chapter Eleven**

**Star Crossed**

Skandar closed his eyes. _I'm going to be a father,_ he thought. _Oh moon, oh sweet moon, thankyou. I'm not the last of my line. This was your plan all along – you kept me alive so I would meet this woman and we would make a child. But why?_

'What are we going to do, Skandar?' said Ingë.

Skandar pulled himself back to the present. 'What will your parents do if they find out?'

'I don't know,' she said. 'Well… I do know.'

'What?'

'Well.' She frowned unhappily. 'They couldn't risk the news getting out. They'd force me to kill the child. Then they'd send you away, and pretend nothing ever happened.'

'You're certain?'

'Yes.' Ingë sighed. 'This isn't the first time a noblewoman shared her bed with someone she shouldn't have.'

Skander shuddered. 'Well then,' he said softly. 'There's only one thing you can do.'

She moved closer to him. 'What?'

'Kill the child,' he said. 'And do it at once.'

Ingë stiffened. 'What? Skandar, how could you-?'

'We have no choice,' he said. 'The longer you wait, the more likely it is that your parents will find out. And when that happens, we're both dead.'

'But…' Ingë put her hand to her stomach. 'Skandar, how can you say that? This child is yours – another dark elf. The heir to your line!'

'A half-breed,' Skandar told her flatly. 'The riders will want it dead the moment they find out it exists.'

'Well maybe they _won't_ find out,' said Ingë. 'If we can hide it…'

'Ingë,' said Skandar. 'Listen. I want this child. I want it more than you can imagine. A son or a daughter of my own… an heir to my line… it's more than I could ever have dreamed. But if you carry that child to term, it will kill us.'

'Well…' Ingë stared at the ground.

Skandar lifted her chin. 'Do you know a way to abort the child?' he asked gently.

She struggled to look him in the eye. 'Yes. There's a potion… it should be easy to find in the city.'

'Good. Then this is what you must do. Find the potion. Smuggle it back to your room, and drink it as soon as you can. It's the only way, Ingë.'

'But there has to be another way-,'

'The only way you can keep the child is if we run away together,' said Skandar. 'And you already told me why we can't do that.'

Ingë felt a terrible misery in her chest. 'I know.'

He kissed her on the forehead. 'Go, then. Think it over – I will wait for you tomorrow. But no matter what you decide, I will still love you. Remember that.'

Ingë kissed him back. 'I will, Skandar. Always.'

She picked up the lantern and left, her head bowed.

When she had gone, Skandar lay on his bed in the darkness and stared at the ceiling.

Despite all he had said – and despite the dire implications of Ingë's news – he felt hot with excitement.

_A child of my own,_ he thought again and again, trying to convince himself that it was real. _ An heir to the Traegannis._

The dream came back to him, unbidden, and a slow, disbelieving smile spread over his face. Of course! Ingë's son – the man he had seen – it had to be _this_ child – _his _child!

_My son will be a Prince,_ he thought, quite calmly. _And one day he will be a King._

He thought back to a time long ago, when his grandfather had told him about the great Kings of the past – all the wisest and strongest men who had ruled the dark elves. He had recited their names, and Skandar recalled them now, one by one, remembering them with a kind of sad pride.

King Orgetorix, the cunning King.

King Vercingtorix, the warrior King.

King Dumnorix, the strong King.

He remembered King Graethen's crown – the simple silver circlet, set with a pale blue stone and etched with the sacred oath of Kings. "For the greatest of all servants".

So many Traegannis had worn it, and honoured it all their lives. And he, too, would have worn it one day if fate had not intervened.

Skandar thought of the names of the Kings again, running them through his mind. Orgetorix. Vercingtorix. Dumnorix. And one other – one he had nearly forgotten.

His smile widened.

_Yes,_ he thought. _That one. The last one. That will be his name. _

'Galbatorix,' he said aloud. 'The Great King.'

Angela, the herbalist, looked up distractedly as the door to her shop opened. However, once she saw the customer, her expression changed.

'Good morning, my Lady.'

Ingë Taranisäii closed the shop door and locked it behind her. 'I don't know what you're talking about,' she said shortly. 'I'm not a Lady.'

Angela took in the curly red-brown hair, the green eyes and the delicate face, all of which she recognised easily. But she was wearing a plain brown woollen dress and the face was pale with anxiety.

'I'm very sorry,' the herbalist said evenly. 'I must have mistaken you for someone else. Now, what can I do for you?'

Ingë smiled slightly and came toward the table where Angela sat. 'I know you make abortifacients,' she said bluntly. 'But if you're feeling forgetful today, then so am I.'

Angela got up and walked past her to check out the windows. Nobody was in sight. She turned back and confronted her customer. 'Don't worry,' she told her kindly. 'I understand. You're not the first to come to me like this. Please, sit down, and I'll see what I can do.'

Ingë sat at the table, and fidgeted with the polished bones scattered over it. 'Please, be as fast as you can. I need it quickly.'

Angela reached into her pocket. 'Not to worry,' she said. 'I have it… right here.'

Ingë took the little vial offered to her. 'You already had it ready?' she asked, suspiciously.

'Yes,' said Angela. 'As it happens, I was expecting someone to come for some today.'

Ingë stood up, and stuffed the vial into her sleeve. 'How do I use it?'

'All you have to do is drink it,' said Angela. 'But do it late at night, or some other time when you're certain not to be disturbed. It will expel the unborn child from your body immediately. So be careful to have a basin ready,' she added dryly.

Ingë swallowed hard. 'How much do I owe you?'

Angela reached behind her and unlocked the door. 'I never take payment for this,' she said softly. 'Go. And don't look back.'

Ingë stared at her a moment longer, and fled the shop.

Once she had gone, Angela sat down at the table and finally breathed out. Without even thinking, she let her eyes stray toward the bones. They lay scattered over the wood where Ingë had dropped them, and Angela examined them, noting the pattern they had made through sheer force of habit.

All of them had landed face-down, hiding the black symbols carved into them. All except one. Angela picked it up and rubbed her thumb over the simple shape on it.

It was a skull.

Ingë returned home shortly after dawn, and managed to slip inside without being seen. She had meant to go straight to her own room, to hide the potion and change her clothes, but as she passed through the dining room on her way she saw her mother sitting at the table and froze.

Lady Taranisäii looked up before her daughter could back out. 'Good morning. What is _that_ you're wearing?'

'This?' Ingë nearly choked out the word. 'Oh, just something I found…'

'In the gutter, I assume,' said her mother. She sighed. 'Ingë, what are we going to do with you? I hope you realise how upset your father is.'

Ingë hung her head. 'I know. I feel terrible about it.'

'And so you should,' her mother said severely. 'Making a decision like that, behind his back – I don't think you realise how much of an insult that was to him. And coming from you, his only child…'

'Consider it a last act of childishness, Mother,' said Ingë. 'Don't forget you'll be sending me away soon enough to marry Lord Aisling's son. After that I'll be out of your hair, won't I? And then I'll have no choice but to act like a lady.'

Lady Taranisäii's eyes melted. 'Oh, Ingë…' she rose from the table, and embraced her daughter tightly.

Ingë started. 'Mother!'

'I'm sorry,' Lady Taranisäii whispered. 'It's just that I'll miss you so much when you're gone… how can I give you up?

Ingë curled her hand inward, trying to keep the vial from falling out of her sleeve. 'I'm sorry, Mother,' she said, trying not to cry. 'I don't want to go either. It's not fair!'

The last three words burst out of her, given extra anger by her fear.

Lady Taranisäii let go. 'I know you're unhappy about marrying someone you've never met. I felt the same way about your father once. But when I met him… well, it was different.'

'I know,' Ingë muttered. 'I just… wish I could marry for love.'

'Don't we all!' said Lady Taranisäii. She smiled weakly. 'Now, go upstairs and change into something more respectable, there's a good girl.'

'Yes, Mother,' said Ingë, and nearly fled out of the room. Her mother's gaze followed her, and so did her guilt.

She locked herself in her room and sat down on the bed, shivering. The vial fell out of her sleeve and landed silently on the blankets, and she picked it up. The potion inside was yellow, and she couldn't see through it. It looked like poison. But that was exactly what it was.

She felt a sudden twinge of nausea, and put a hand to her abdomen. It hadn't yet begun to swell, and she wasn't certain when it would, but her baby was already making itself felt.

'I'm sorry, little one,' she breathed. 'I want to let you live. But I can't. For Skandar's sake.'

The thought of him, and of her mother's tear-streaked face, brought a wave of such terrible guilt and fear over her that she nearly drank the potion then and there. But common sense prevailed, and she stood up and hid it under the mattress.

Skandar passed that day in agonies. He went about his work as always, but though he was outwardly unconcerned, underneath his mind was a turmoil.

All he could think of was Ingë. His stomach burned with worry for her when he didn't see her, and he began to think of more and more terrible things that could have happened.

Had she found a herbalist and bought the potion she needed? Had she used it? Had her parents caught her? Or had something even worse happened?

His fears only increased when he went back to his cell that night and waited for her, and she did not come. He lay on his side with his back to the wall, unable to sleep, nearly sick with anxiety.

When he finally did doze off, it was only to dream painful and frightening dreams.

He saw a white city. It was burning. And above, dragons fell screaming from the sky. He saw an elvish settlement – one so much like the one where he had grown up. It, too, was burning, and elves fled from it, screaming as they were cut down by arrows, magic and dragonfire.

But they were not dark elves, and it was not Skandar's old home that burned.

He saw Vrael's people dying, dozens of them.

_But who could have done this? _his sleeping mind whispered. _Who? _

A pale elvish King appeared through the chaos, seeking desperately for a way to escape. He stopped with a jerk, as if frozen in place by a spell. His eyes widened, and his hands went to his chest, where a sharp point had suddenly thrust its way through. Blood gurgled out of his mouth and he toppled forward. Standing over him, his killer put a foot on his back and pulled his sword free. Then he turned toward Skandar, and he saw his face. A face so much like that of a dark elf, but with the rounded ears of a human. The long hair was black… but curly – and so familiar.

The elven King's killer raised a fist. _For my father! _he roared. _For our people!_

A ghastly smile spread over Skandar's face, as he heard that loud, passionate voice.

The smile was still there when he woke up, and realised someone was shaking him by the arm.

'Skandar. Skandar, wake up!'

Skandar sat up, as alert as if he hadn't been sleeping at all. 'Ingë,' he said, reaching out joyfully to touch her.

Ingë crouched by him and wrapped her arms around his neck. 'I'm sorry I took so long to come,' she said, kissing his rough cheek.

Skandar reached up and took her hand. 'Ingë. Thank the moon you're safe. What happened? Did you get it?'

'Yes. Early this morning.'

He tensed. 'Have you used it yet?'

'No,' said Ingë. 'That's why… why I didn't come straight away. I was trying to decide if I should do it tonight. But I… I had to see you again… I couldn't… it was too hard.'

Skandar hugged her tightly. 'Good,' he breathed. 'Good. Do you feel better today?'

'A little. Not much. Skandar, what can we do? I mean I… I know what you said, but…'

'But what?'

'I'm not sure I can do it,' said Ingë. 'Killing my own child – _your_ child, the one we made together in love… there has to be some way we can keep it.'

Skandar kissed her on the forehead. 'We'll find a way. I'm sure of it.'

Ingë stopped. 'You mean you don't think… I thought you were going to tell me to do it as soon as I told you I had the potion.'

Skandar thought of the dream. 'I was… too hasty,' he said, carefully. 'And I can't force you to do it if you don't want to.'

'Maybe we _should_ run away,' Ingë said. 'Maybe there's a way we can do it… get away with it. We could find somewhere to hide, somewhere to live. We could raise our child together.'

Skandar looked her in the face. 'You would do that? Give up everything you have here?'

'Yes,' said Ingë, without a moment's hesitation. 'If it meant living with you forever.'

_But you can't,_ Skandar thought sadly. _Even if we did escape, I would outlive you. I would have to watch you die._

'So that's the choice, then,' Ingë said eventually. 'Run away with you, or kill our child.'

'Yes,' said Skandar.

She smiled and kissed him. 'It's decided, then.'

Skandar blinked. 'What?'

'Everything! I'm going away with you, Skandar. We'll plan it out, and then go. I'm sure we can find a way. And my father can search for us all he likes, but he'll never find us.'

_But how can we raise a child out there, on the run every day?_ Skandar thought it, and he wanted to say it, but it was as if someone else had taken control of his voice, and he heard himself say, 'Yes. The child must live. _Must_ live.'

'Our little Prince,' Ingë laughed. 'Or Princess.'

'Prince,' said Skandar.

'Oh? And what makes you so sure?'

'Because I saw him,' said Skandar. 'In my dream, the one I told you about. Your son – _our_ son. He will have my eyes, and your curly hair.' He stroked it. 'Your beautiful long curly hair.'

'Our son, then,' said Ingë. She sounded a little shaky.

'Our son,' Skandar agreed. _Our son must live. _He wanted to tell her everything about the dream, but he kept silent. He didn't want to frighten her, and in a way it felt like something that was not meant to be shared – a gift for him alone.

He remembered seeing the massacre of the pale elves, and smiled wolfishly in the dark.

'I have to go,' said Ingë, oblivious to his thoughts. 'I'll come again tomorrow, and we'll make plans.'

'I'll think hard while I'm working,' Skandar promised.

'And so will I. I'll have something by then, I swear.'

With that, she picked up the lantern and slipped out.

Ingë did indeed spend the next day thinking. She made a point of keeping far away from Skandar, and spent her time in her room, playing her harp. The sound of the music helped her to relax, and chased away the tiredness and nausea her pregnancy continued to bring.

By noon she felt much better, and dozens of ideas and possibilities had gathered in her mind. She could hardly wait for night to come, but wait she did, and after the evening meal she pretended to go to bed early. She waited and read a book until she heard her parents retire, and once she had given them some time to fall asleep she picked up her lantern and crept out and down the stairs. She didn't light the lantern until she was at the door to Skandar's cell, as her custom was, and then stepped forward confidently to open the door.

It was locked.

Suddenly frightened, Ingë wrenched at the handle with no results.

'_Ingë?'_ Skandar's voice came from the other side, muffled by the thick wood.

Ingë pressed herself against the door. 'Skandar! What's going on?'

A pause, and then, _'They've locked me in.'_

'But why?'

'_I don't know. The housekeeper has the key.'_

'I'll go and get it then,' she said.

'_No!'_ Skandar's voice rose. _'Don't. Leave it be, Ingë. If they catch you it'll bring all kinds of awkward questions. Don't risk it.'_

'What should I do, then?'

'_Go back to bed now. You need your rest anyway. Maybe they won't lock it tomorrow night.'_

Ingë glanced over her shoulder, tense and angry. She knew Skandar spoke sense – she was utterly exposed here, especially with the lantern lit. She snuffed it out. 'I love you, Skandar,' she said, through the door, and hurried away.

The night after that, Skandar's cell was locked again. This time Ingë had a go at picking the lock, but there was very little point – the lock was high quality, and she had no idea how to go about picking one anyway. Skandar, waiting on the other side, quietly urged her to leave, and she did. But she returned the next night, and the night after that, to check the lock and whisper her love before she went back to her room to cry into her pillow.

Weeks dragged by, and nothing she did could change the situation. The housekeeper carried the key to Skandar's cell everywhere with him, and Ingë knew any attempt to steal it during the night would be suicide. She considered ordering him to give it to her many times, but she knew he would be instantly suspicious, and that he was too loyal to her mother not to tell her.

During the day, Ingë did her best to try and talk to Skandar, but he always seemed to be in sight of someone else, and she could never do more than exchange the briefest whispers – and even those felt like a hideous risk.

In desperation, she resorted to writing him a note and slipping it into his hand one day while he was bringing a stack of clean linen up to her room. Skandar returned it to her the next day, with an apologetic murmur of, 'I cannot read.'

It almost made her laugh – or would have, if the situation had not been so ghastly.

And all the while, her pregnancy advanced. Any lingering hope that she might not be pregnant after all disappeared when her abdomen began to swell. Three months after their first encounter on the rooftop, she could feel the baby beginning to move inside her.

She did her best to hide it, wearing her loosest clothing and staying out of her parents' sight as much as possible, but the more the baby grew, the more the danger grew with it.

Again and again she reached under her mattress and brought out the little vial Angela had given her – again and again she clutched it to herself and tried to make herself think of drinking it. Once she went as far as to take the cork out and actually put it to her lips, but no matter how hard she tried she could not make herself tip it down her throat. Because the more the baby grew, the more she felt it inside, the more fiercely she loved it and wanted to protect it. And even when she managed to fight her instincts, the memory of Skandar would intervene. _The child must live. _

Yes. The child must live. She knew it with every fibre of her being. And she knew, too, that she had to leave, and that the need to do so was becoming more and more urgent.

But she would not leave. Not without Skandar.


	12. A Doom

Chapter Twelve

**Chapter Twelve**

**A Doom**

One morning, Ingë – now nearly seven months pregnant – came downstairs for breakfast. She moved slowly and carefully, not wanting to disturb the baby or do anything to reveal the bulge hidden under her gown. She felt sick and depressed, as she had done for months, but as she reached the foot of the stairs she saw something that made her heart leap – Skandar, currently being harangued by the housekeeper.

'…what d'you mean, "it just slipped"?' the burly housekeeper. 'Are y'blind as well as girly? Eh?'

Skandar glanced up at Ingë, and flashed her a triumphant smile behind the housekeeper's back before he went back to looking contrite. 'I'm sorry, master. I think there was some candle-wax on the floor.'

'Candle- what in the gods' names would there be candle-wax on the floor there? What were y'doin' with a chisel down there anyway?'

'I thought there was a splintery patch near the knob, master,' said Skandar. 'I wanted to smooth it off a little, and the hammer slipped.'

The housekeeper growled and hit him around the ears. Skandar cringed and cowered, and Ingë nearly shouted in indignation before the housekeeper's angry voice drowned her out.

'It just slipped! When you shouldn't have been doing anything of the sort without permission – do you have any idea how much it's going to cost to put a new lock in that door?'

Ingë's face went pale. She wanted to scream.

She didn't move. Skandar stammered his apologies to the infuriated housekeeper, who hit him again several times and continued to shout at him, but Ingë knew her beloved was feeling no pain.

She realised she had been standing and staring at them for far too long, but she winked at Skandar before walking away as noncholantly as she could.

Her heart was thudding almost painfully. _He did it! _her mind screamed. _He found a way! We're free! _

When she reached the dining room she found her mother there already eating. She sat down, grinning in jubilation. 'Good morning, Mother! Where's Father?'

Her mother glanced up. Ingë noted that she looked a little red around the eyes, but she was too happy to pay much attention. 'Your father already finished eating.'

'Oh. I slept too late again, didn't I? Sorry. I've just been so tired lately.' Ingë helped herself to some honey rolls.

Lady Taranisäii said nothing.

Ingë was far too preoccupied to mind. She ate more heartily than she had done in weeks, relishing every mouthful. All that mattered now was that she was free.

Her course of action was plain now: tonight she would pack whatever she could carry, slip down to Skandar's cell and flee with him – it didn't matter where to. They would find a way.

The rest of the meal passed in silence. Afterwards Ingë left the dining room with a new spring in her step.

That day passed like a dream. Ingë took her harp out into the garden and played, apparently oblivious to the slave busy planting a row of new flowers behind her. But Skandar was listening. She could feel his gaze on her back.

This time she did turn to look at him, and smile openly. It didn't matter if anyone saw them now – it was far too late for them to suspect anything. Far too late.

When she was confident that no-one was close enough to see or hear, she whispered to him. 'Well done, Skandar.'

'It was a risk,' he murmured back, without looking at her. 'I was afraid I would be whipped.'

'We're leaving tonight,' said Ingë, playing on to cover her voice. 'Be ready.'

'I will,' he breathed.

Lady Taranisäii didn't come to lunch that day, and neither did her husband. Ingë ate alone, grateful not to have to deal with either her mother's probing questions or the simple guilt of seeing them both and knowing she would never eat with them again. And she did feel guilty, despite her attempts to persuade herself otherwise. She loved her parents, and the thought of never seeing them again – and of depriving them of their only child – took away some of her joy and relief at being able to be with Skandar.

But she consoled herself by thinking that she would contact them later on, once she and Skandar were safe – just to let them know that she was well, and to tell them how their grandchild was growing.

That made her smile.

The baby kicked, and she touched the thankfully small bump he had made in her. 'Don't worry, little one,' she whispered. 'We're safe now. I won't let anything happen to you. I promise.'

The baby kicked again in response, and she smiled.

After lunch, she left the servants to clear the dishes away and went back up the stairs. She had little time left to decide what she would take with her.

On her way up the stairs, she met her mother coming the other way. 'Oh, hello,' she said cheerily. 'I didn't see you at lunch.'

Lady Taranisäii sounded slightly hoarse. 'I haven't been feeling well.'

Ingë hugged her lightly. 'I'm sure you'll get better. Just make sure you get plenty of rest. Where's Father, by the way? I haven't seen him all day.'

'Oh… he's up at the castle,' said her mother. 'Official business, apparently.'

'When will he be back?'

'I'm not sure. Soon.'

Ingë smiled at her mother, and went on her way. By the time she reached her room she had already decided what the first thing she would take was: the egg.

Lord Menulis of Ellesméra looked up to a knock on the door of his study. 'Enter.'

One of his officials came in, bowing hastily. 'My Lord. I'm sorry to disturb you…'

Menulis put down his quill. 'Go on.'

'There is someone here asking to see you immediately.'

The elf sighed. 'Tell them to come back tomorrow unless it's urgent; I have a lot to do and too little time to do it in.'

'It's Lord Taranisäii, my Lord, and he insists…'

Menulis stopped at that. His eyes narrowed. 'Lord Taranisäii? What does he want?'

'He wouldn't tell me, my Lord. Shall I send him up?'

'Yes. At once.'

'My Lord.' The man bowed again and left.

Alone, Menulis wiped the tip of the quill and put the lid back on the ink-pot. _'Another Taranisäii,'_ he thought. _'Will that infernal line never die out?'_

'_It would seem not,' _the voice of Nyx, his dragon, replied.

'_But what could he want?'_ said Menulis. _'I swear, if it is not of the utmost importance, I shall take great pleasure in expelling him from the castle.'_

'_He has done nothing wrong,'_ Nyx said gently. _'And the Taranisäiis are still very powerful, whether you like them or not. You would do well to remember that.'_

'_Hah. If I had my way, I would have taken their wealth and titles away – at the very least.'_

'_But other humans respect them,'_ said Nyx. _'You would do better not to upset them.'_

'_I know.'_ Menulis growled to himself. _'Treacherous blood, Taranisäii blood. Which Lord Taranisäii is this – do you remember?'_

Nyx paused to think. _'The fifty-seventh, I think. Lord Wulfgar Taranisäii.'_

'_Ah yes. I remember him. A pompous fool. He challenged me to a duel once. I still treasure the look on his face afterwards.'_

'_That was a hundred and fifty years ago, Menulis,'_ Nyx interrupted.

'_Ah.' _Menulis sighed. _'How time flies, and human lives with it. Now…'_

A servant opened the door to his study, bowing low. 'Lord Taranisäii,' he intoned, and stepped aside to let the great man through.

Lord Taranisäii entered. He looked pale around the face, and he bowed to Menulis with as much overt respect as the servant. 'Lord Menulis.'

Menulis gestured at a chair. 'Sit down, Wulfgar.'

'I would prefer to remain standing,' Lord Taranisäii said stiffly, as the servant left.

'As you wish. Now.' Menulis sat back in his chair, privately enjoying the human's discomfit. 'Why have you come to see me?'

Lord Taranisäii paused. 'I have… a problem, in my household. I took some time to deliberate, but I decided that the best thing to do would be to inform you, my Lord.'

'I see.' Menulis stifled a yawn. 'And what is so terribly wrong in your household that you had to trouble me about it?'

Lord Taranisäii drew himself up. 'This is in the strictest of confidence, Argetlam. I want to make that clear.'

'Of course,' said Menulis, waving away his doubts. 'Go on.'

'I have been away from the city,' said Lord Taranisäii. 'As you may be aware. During my absence, my daughter… took it into her head to purchase a slave at the markets.'

Menulis forced himself not to laugh. 'I see. How embarrassing.'

'Yes,' said Lord Taranisäii, without a hint of amusement. 'Normally I would have sent him away the moment I found out about it, but I decided I had no choice but to keep him… my daughter seemed very anxious to let him stay.'

'Fond of him, is she?'

'You could say that.' Lord Taranisäii hesitated. 'My Lord – I hope this isn't too impertinent of me to ask, but have the riders ever fought other elves in the past?'

'Never,' Menulis said flatly.

'So no elves have ever been sold into slavery?'

'No.' The lie came so naturally that it didn't even feel like a lie.

'Well, I find that odd,' said Lord Taranisäii. 'Because this slave is an elf. And he claims that-,'

'What!' Menulis shot forward in his chair.

'And he claims,' Lord Taranisäii went on, 'That his people were conquered and destroyed by the riders and that he was sold into slavery. You can understand why I was reluctant to sell him again – if I were seen, trying to sell an elf, one of _your_ people, my Lord…'

The colour drained from Menulis' face. 'What does this… elf look like?' he said, very quietly.

'Black eyes and hair,' said Lord Taranisäii. 'Not like any elf I have ever seen, but he has pointed ears and he moves like an elf…'

'That… is not an elf,' Menulis whispered. 'Where is he?'

'At my house. He seems harmless enough.'

'And have you told anyone else about this?'

'No!' Lord Taranisäii exclaimed. 'I wouldn't dream of it! If people knew…'

'They must _never_ know,' said Menulis. 'Do you understand? _No-one_ must know.'

'Why?'

The bold question enraged the elf so badly he nearly lashed out, but he controlled himself. 'The slave that you have in your house is not one of my people,' he said. 'He is a dark elf – a race that was supposed to be extinct. How he came to be in Teirm I have no idea.' _But I will find out,_ he thought. 'Here are my instructions: you must take every measure possible to ensure that news of his existence does not get out. You are not to even contemplate selling him. He must stay in your house, and never be allowed to leave for any reason. Keep your eye on him. The dark elves are a cunning and treacherous race – keep him close, give him no chance to work his mischief.'

Lord Taranisäii's eyes were red-rimmed. 'That's why I came to you,' he said. 'Because… I suspect… he already has.'

Menulis stood up. 'What do you mean?' he rasped. 'What has he done?'

'My daughter has been acting strangely,' said Lord Taranisäii, each word escaping him with reluctance. 'Ever since he came. The servants tell me that when she first brought him home, she gave him clean clothes and let him eat with her – talked to him as if he were her friend. She keeps away from him now, but…'

'But what?' said Menulis.

Lord Taranisäii looked away. 'I… I cannot… I do not want to believe it, but…' he pulled himself together. 'Nothing. It is nothing.'

Menulis stepped around the desk and came closer, his blue eyes blazing. 'It is not nothing, Lord Taranisäii,' he hissed. 'It is something, and you will tell me what, or I will tear the information from you.'

'I think… she may be planning to help him escape,' said Lord Taranisäii.

Menulis stopped. 'But why would she do that, my Lord? Well? Can you tell me that? More importantly – _will_ you?'

The elf's terrible gaze was too much for Lord Taranisäii. 'I've seen the way she looks at him,' he said, almost sobbing the words. 'When she thinks nobody is watching. I heard her creeping out of her room every night, and had someone follow her. They told me she went to the slave's cell – they heard her whispering to him. They saw her…' he closed his eyes, and tears began to trickle down his face. 'Saw her with him.'

Menulis' hands clenched. 'And what else?'

'My daughter is pregnant,' Lord Taranisäii whispered. 'We realised it long ago.'

Menulis abruptly turned away. 'Thankyou for the truth, my Lord. And thankyou for serving the realm. I will deal with it from here.'

Ingë was too excited to eat anything that evening. She lay on her back and stared at the ceiling, trying to make herself breathe calmly. Her bag was under the bed, carefully tucked out of sight. It was small – she knew she wouldn't be able to go far if she was overloaded, and her pregnancy weighed her down enough already.

In the end, after a lot of indecision and having changed her mind several times, she had packed a few spare sets of underclothes, some food filched from the kitchens, money, a dagger, and the dragon egg, wrapped in a plain woollen cloak. The egg took up a lot of room, but she refused to leave it behind. She had always thought of it as hers, and now she felt safe enough to let herself think, _One day, I will give it to my son._

The thought of her child, _their_ child, gave her a feeling of excitement and joy now rather than fear or shame. She thought of Skandar, and her love for him, and knew that the child was their love made flesh – and therefore the most precious and wonderful thing in the world. And she didn't care if she had to give up everything in order to keep it. Compared to the child, compared to Skandar, nothing else mattered. Not even her parents.

She dozed, woke, and slept again, but never deeply. When she woke the last time, she knew the moment she opened her eyes that it was time.

Moving quickly and quietly, she got out of bed and put on her cloak. She had put on a belt over her gown, and she tucked her dagger into it. The weight of it at her hip felt strange, but reassuring too. She tied her bag closed and slung it on her back, picked up her lantern and left – pausing only briefly to look at her room for what she knew was the last time.

Then she turned away, clutching the lantern to her chest, and went down the stairs as quietly as she could.

She had been afraid that Skandar's cell would somehow be locked again – repaired, maybe, or that he would have been moved somewhere else. But the door to his cell was hanging open, and she had barely reached it before he was there – appearing from out of the shadows to take her in his arms.

They shared a silent, passionate kiss, before Ingë pulled away and whispered. 'Come.'

Hand in hand, they left the cell behind forever and made for the back door of the house. Ingë had stolen the key, but it was unlocked anyway, and she and Skandar went through and ran silently through the gardens and toward the stables. There Skandar paused to retrieve a small bundle of food and other items he had stolen, and Ingë went to the stall where her favourite mare lived. Skandar helped her put the saddle and other tack on, and led the horse out of the stable. They would ride it once they were well away from the house.

They went down the gravel drive without incident, and Skandar stopped at the spot where it reached the street and waved to Ingë to keep silent while he looked around for danger.

Ingë saw him tense. 'What is it?' she whispered.

Skandar said nothing. He took a few steps forward, onto the street beyond the house, his head raised. Ingë could see his nostrils flaring, like those of a wolf scenting the air.

She followed him. 'Skandar, what is it?'

He turned sharply, holding up a hand. 'Stop!' he hissed. 'Something's wrong.'

Ingë's blood ran cold. 'What? Can you see something?'

Skandar hesitated a moment longer, and then backed rapidly toward her and grabbed her arm. 'Ingë,' he said. 'Give me your dagger.'

She passed it to him. 'Skandar, what-?'

The dark elf turned to her. 'Get on the horse,' he said, very calmly. 'Just do it.'

'I need help,' said Ingë.

Skandar turned to help her into the saddle, but an instant later he turned back. Ingë looked past him, and nearly screamed.

Seemingly from out of nowhere, half a dozen armoured guardsmen had appeared. All of them had their swords drawn.

Skandar snarled and put himself in front of Ingë, shielding her.

One of the guards raised a hand. 'We want to do this quietly,' he said. 'Give us the girl and neither of you will be hurt.'

'Ingë,' Skandar muttered, without taking his eyes off them. 'Get on the horse. It's your only hope. You have to get away.'

'I won't leave you,' Ingë snapped.

'Lady Ingë,' said the guard. 'Please, just come to us. We can protect you.'

Ingë pushed Skandar out of the way, and went to his side. 'Stand back,' she shouted, with all the force and fire of a Lady of the Ancient House of Taranis. 'I am a Lady, and I command you to leave us be.'

'We're under orders, my Lady,' said the guard. He pointed at Skandar. 'That slave is under arrest. By order of Lord Menulis.'

Ingë took Skandar by the hand. 'Don't you dare touch him. This is not a slave; he's a Prince. His blood is nobler than any Lord in Alagaësia. I will not let you harm him.'

The guard glanced at his colleagues. As one, they advanced.

'Leave us alone!' Ingë shouted. 'I warn you-,'

Skandar pulled his hand away from hers. 'Ingë, get away,' he said. '_Get away!_ You must live – you must protect our child!'

'Skandar-,'

Skandar gripped the dagger tightly, and a horrible, wolfish smile split his angular face. 'Do you really think,' he said, his voice clear and ringing, 'That mere humans can bring down a dark elf? I was alive before any of you were born, and I learnt how to fight from the greatest warriors this land has ever seen.'

The guard captain nodded to his friends. 'Take him.'

Skandar said no more. He pushed Ingë behind him, and leapt at the guards. One of them tried to grab him by the arm, but he dodged it with ease. The dagger flashed, and a man fell, screaming. Skandar did not pause over his body. He ducked a blow from a sword, and calmly stabbed its owner to death. A third guard grabbed him from behind, but Skandar hurled him away as if he weighed as much as a child.

Ingë hadn't moved. '_Skandar!'_

He looked sharply at her. 'Ingë, _run! _Run, now – _uhn_…'

While he was distracted, the guard captain hit him hard on the head with the hilt of his sword. Skandar was stunned but not disabled, but that was all his enemies needed. He went down, fighting with all his remaining strength, screaming at Ingë to run, to escape…

Ingë made one desperate effort to get onto her horse's back, but with nobody to help her and her pregnancy making her hopelessly clumsy, it was futile. Closing her ears to Skandar's cries, she turned and ran.

**Epilogue**

'The trial lasted two months. Normally it would have been a clear-cut case, but Lord Taranisäii did everything he could to save his daughter.' His eyes narrowed against the sun. 'They gave her a vial of potion – the same one she bought from the herbalist – and gave her an ultimatum: kill your child, or be executed.'

'So what did she do?'

'She refused. The child was born in prison, and the next day both of its parents were executed.'

Skade clicked her teeth. 'That was an impressive story to have dreamt up.'

He turned his head to look at her. 'I'll say. D'you want to hear how it ended?'

'I am all ears.'

He yawned. 'Well, so the child was given to a pair of commoners to raise, and grew up in the city. And the odd part is-,'

'That makes no sense,' Skade interrupted. 'Why did Menulis not simply kill it, if he knew it was a half-breed?'

'He probed its mind. Realised it had no magic, and was mortal. And therefore not a threat, I suppose.'

She laughed. 'I cannot believe you dreamt all that.'

'Neither can I,' he admitted. 'But it was better than most of my dreams. Mostly nowadays all I dream about is death… blood. And falling,' he added more quietly.

Skade sat up. 'We have rested long enough. Where is Skandar?'

He sat up too, and scanned the trees around them. 'Here he comes.'

Skandar lumbered toward them. 'Rested?'

'Yes – are you?'

The massive griffin dipped his black-capped head. 'Am rest!' he declared. 'Sleep.'

'I was just telling Skade about a dream I had last night.'

'Have dream?' said Skandar. 'I dream, too.'

Skade put her head on one side. 'And what did _you_ dream of?'

Skandar flicked his tail. 'Dream of lizard,' he said. 'Big lizard, fly like griffin. Have big tooth.'

'And what happened?' said Skade.

The griffin blinked lazily. 'Fight lizard. Kill. Good meat.'

The silver-haired woman laughed. 'Lizards are too oily. I have never liked the taste.' She turned to her companion. 'Are you ready to leave, Arenadd?'

He paused to look up at the sky, one hand absently touching his pointed black beard. 'We should get going.'

'Do you think we will reach the North soon?' said Skade.

Arenadd shook his head. 'I don't know. I hope so. And maybe we'll find help there.'

She grinned. 'Yes, and perhaps we shall find dark elves.'

Arenadd Taranisäii smoothed down his black robe. 'Don't be silly, Skade. There's no such thing as elves.'

**Author's Note:** I had trouble deciding how to end this fic, but decided I wanted to leave Galbatorix where we last saw him. At first I thought that meant visiting him one last time in his spirit form, as he was at the end of _Shadow's Heir,_ but then I realised that isn't where he ended up. So I wrote an epilogue to show readers where he is now – safe and sound in a new world created just for him, under a different name but still the same man at heart. His beloved went with him. And so did I.

_The Dark Griffin,_ book one of a trilogy with Arenadd Taranisäii as its protagonist, will be released in Australia and New Zealand in August 2009. I am going to try and sell the trilogy in the United States and the United Kingdom as well – go to Griffin's Eyrie at community./griffinseyrie/ for all the latest news.


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